


tank time

by uumiho



Series: tank time & side fics [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Cats, Humanstuck, M/M, retail hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 73,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5268143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumiho/pseuds/uumiho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>>User: Karkat Vantas<br/>Objective: Sabotage any and all customer attempts to purchase a live pet from the undermanaged retail hell you call a job.</p><p>>User: Dave Strider<br/>Objective: Obtain a cat before your sister's birthday next month.</p><p>Match: begin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HOW DO I EVEN TAG THIS
> 
> idk this is my gay christmas fanfic enjoy

EB: she's sooo pissed at you.   
TG: tell me something i dont know  
EB: you're literally more grating and obtuse than a coked up orangutan.  
TG: i said something i dont know  
TG: ok  
TG: so what do i do  
EB: talk to her?   
TG: shes enacted the silent treatment and her girlfriend called saying she was threatening to block me  
EB: jeez…  
TG: i know right  
TG: seriously though  
EB: weeellllllll…  
TG: ?   
TG: dude spit it out  
EB: her birthday's coming up you know.   
TG: do i  
EB: shut up.   
EB: why don't you get her another cat?   
TG: im pretty sure the last thing rose wants to think about in context of me is another cat  
TG: all small  
TG: helpless  
TG: demonically fast  
TG: just waiting to dart out the door between some unsuspecting dudes legs and into the dark street never to be seen again  
TG: yeah no  
TG: ill pass  
EB: suit yourself!   
EB: okay, i gotta go.   
TG: what  
TG: no  
TG: you have to stay here and help me  
EB: that's all i got, dave! my next piano lesson starts in five minutes, so i really gotta go.   
TG: some bro you are  
TG: leaving your best bud in familial exile while you run off to play chopsticks to a herd of giggling high school students  
TG: dont bother missing me when im gone after roses dead cats spirit comes to get its revenge  
TG: i hope you tickle those ivories into a somber as fuck melody in my memory  
TG: that shit better be chock full of regret  
TG: fuck you man  
TG: just  
TG: fuck

* * *

There’s a Petco another hour and a half down the bus line, but it’s snowing and Dave doesn’t have that kind of time. Well, he does. But his iPhone is only at 37% battery and he’s not patient enough to go that long without entertainment. Fortunately, there’s a small hole-in-the-wall ten minutes from his apartment that boasts custom aquariums and reptile vivariums, and one of the yelp reviews said they sell live pets.

It looks even shittier in person than it did in the picture. Multiple neon signs have been added since the pixelated, overexposed image was captured somewhere in the early 90s. Combined, they shine so bright they almost distract from the puke green awning, torn from years of weather, with faded navy font that looks like it’s trying to be Comic Sans but isn’t quite. The visual assault is such that Dave nearly misses the grime on the windows and how there seems to be something alive inside the trash can, although he’s not quite brave enough to check.

Any animal bought from this place is guaranteed to have three kinds of rabies and possibly congestive heart failure, in addition to being intellectually dishonest and a kleptomaniac. It sounds perfect for Rose, so Dave spits a wad of tasteless gum into the cigarette disposal (he isn’t going near that trash can) and steps inside.

The bell on the door jingles merrily, but upon passing the threshold there’s no one in sight: not customers, not pimply teenage employees, not even a grizzled old man to regale him with stories of putting live mice in freezers.

Alrighty then.

Along the entire front wall, not noticeable from the outside, is what must be a six foot long, gargantuan tank full of… sand and wood? Dave looks closer, blinking when he sees some small things skittering through the thick foliage. “They’re not for sale,” a rough voice says behind him.

He’s startled, but not enough to make a fool out of himself. Dave doesn’t turn around, but scans the area in his peripheral vision in search of clues. “Dude,” he says. “There’s a sign right there.” He points down at the far corner of the tank, where ‘Hermit Crabs $5 per ea.’ is written in sharpie on an offwhite piece of cardstock. It’s placed away from the reach of the fluorescent tank lighting, almost like someone _doesn’t_ want it to be noticed.

A dark hand reaches into his line of sight and unceremoniously rips the sign off the tank. “That was a prank,” the other person says, “and you can feel free to ignore it.”

“Okay,” Dave says, because sure, and turns toward the speaker. The voice made him expect someone at least moderately intimidating, but the fluffy hair, round cheeks, and full lips are suspiciously cherubic, despite the rather genuine scowl. Also, this dude is like five feet tall, give or take a few inches. “Do you work here?” he asks, dubious about whether or not this is customer service or an attempt at stealing his lunch money.

The guy rolls his eyes, which makes Dave think the answer is ‘no,’ and he’s about to be held at gunpoint in a pet store, and then he grabs the front of his grey turtleneck sweater and tugs the wrinkles straight to reveal a worn laminated tag that reads ‘Hello, my name is KARKAT.’ The first thing Dave notices is that his nails are painted black, although heavily chipped. The second thing he notices is that at the bottom of the nametag it looks like there used to be the phrase ‘How may I assist you?’ but it somehow got cut in half and frayed out of existence.

Mystery for the ages.

He drops the sweater and reaches up to brush his overgrown bangs out of his eyes, then folds his arms over his chest. It turns him into a puffball of rumpled wool and flyaway hair, which Dave fails to find either professional or impressive. Mostly, he looks like a puffed up cat. Speaking of. “Do you have any kittens?”

If Karkat’s face looked offended before, now it looks straight up murderous. “If you want a kitten, I invite you to look into one of the mills of inbred, abused, unloved, soon-to-be-abandoned backyard bred animals. Might I suggest Craigslist, or some cushy chain pet shop balanced on the rusty, beloved see-saw of quality photography and appalling ethics? There’s at least three of them downtown. If you want to pay five hundred dollars for an animal you’ll only care about until it stops being small and inoffensive, be my guest, but I’m afraid I can’t fff— I can’t help you.”

Dave blinks very, very slowly. “Do you have any… cats?”

Hunching his shoulders up around his ears, Karkat jabs a thumb at the wall behind him. “Cat kennels are through that door.”

“Thanks.”

There are, in fact, no kittens. However, the eight kennels filling in one side of the room give him enough to choose from—the moment he catches the attention of the room’s inhabitants there’s a chorus of noise as all the cats come to the doors of their steel prisons to bat fluffy paws through the bars in a sordid appeal for pets. Dave obliges the one nearest to him, threading his fingers through a gap and allowing the animal to smash its head into them, purring enticingly. “Nice,” he comments, wiggling his hand as best he can to facilitate a more effective petting motion. This one is a skinny tabby, and the note on the front of its—his—cage says he’s two years old and calls him Princeton. What the fuck. Dave snorts, and moves to inspect the next prisoner.

In total, there’s actually nine cats. Two green-eyed grey longhairs inhabit one of the lower cages, and remain curled around each other, staring dispassionately at Dave from the back of the kennel once they realize that he hasn’t come equipped with a meal. “Fuck y’all too,” Dave comments, leaving both ‘Lacey’ and ‘Casey’ to their own shitty devices.

His favourite is a ten year old abyssinian boy going by the name of Sir Charles, and although Dave wonders who the fuck is naming these cats, he spends about ten minutes trying to cram his whole hand through the bars to stroke the sleek honey-coloured fur, while he lays down a few sick lyrics about how awesome and skinny this cat is. Charles fails to appreciate the genius that went into rhyming ‘sybian’ with ‘abyssinian,’ but he accepts the physical affection readily enough. Much as Dave wants him, though, he doesn’t think giving Rose a pet that might die anywhere within the next five years is the best idea.

He ends up two cages to the left, shoulder pressed against the wall, studying a creamy siamese pointe. She has a shaggy medium-length coat, faint textured stripes, and piercing blue eyes, with which she regards him coolly before padding over to give his extended fingers an inquisitive sniff. Her body is long and lanky and almost regal—a thought which lasts all of thirty seconds until Dave’s eyes shift to her infocard and he discovers her name is _Dumpling_. A short, surprised laugh bursts from his chest; Dumpling’s ears flick backward in disapproval. She’s perfect. At a solid four years she’s old enough to know how to use a litter box and hopefully a scratching post, but isn’t quite aged enough that he has to worry about being strongarmed into frequent vet-related errands.

The adoption fee reads $65, which is a little steep, but manageable. Before he can do anything about it, the door to the kennel room bursts open and Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony Performed Entirely By Cats nearly deafens him. “What the—” you almost miss how his teeth settle for a moment on his bottom lip before relaxing “—are you doing in here?” Karkat asks.

“Just looking,” Dave says, pulling his hands away from the cages and shoving it in his pockets as if he was doing something wrong, although he’s pretty damn sure petting cats in a pet shop is not actually illegal.

“I’ve heard people use their eyes to do that,” is the surly reply, because of course this jackass would.

“Gonna call the cops?” he asks, rolling his eyes behind the safety of his shades.

Karkat snorts. “Don’t tempt me.” He wraps his whole fist around a cable laying against the room’s back wall and gives it an unnecessarily forceful yank. As it turns out, the wall is actually half window, offering a grease-stained view into the remainder of the store. The thick brown curtain rolls up to the ceiling, letting more light into the small room. Karkat doesn’t say anything, but the message of ‘I can see you and will rain unholy hellfire down on anything that displeases me about your conduct’ is clear.

Dave fails to provide any sort of meaningful response. As Karkat goes to exit the room without another word, Dave stops him. “Hey, wait. I want to buy a cat.”

Stopped in his tracks, Karkat’s spine goes stiff. Again, Dave imagines some kind of small, furry creature going puffy in a misinformed attempt to look threatening. “We don’t sell cats,” Karkat says, voice gravelly.

“Uh, what?”

He turns around, jaw clearly set. “I said: We don’t sell cats, you—” He clamps his mouth shut.

“What are these here for, then.”

Karkat’s eyes flick to the kennels, then back to Dave. “They’re up for _adoption_.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Dave rolls his eyes again, and doesn’t care if the rest of his body language gives the gesture away, even if his eyes are obscured. “Fine. How do I _adopt_ a cat.”

Although he looks very much like he’d rather rip his own eyes out and smash them on the floor right in front of Dave, no more than ten seconds tick by before he mumbles, begrudgingly, “Right this way.” He turns on his heel and doesn’t spare Dave so much as a disdainful huff before thundering out of the room and over to the counter.

Dave follows at a much more resigned pace, hands still stuffed in his pockets. The cat chorus expresses disapproval at being ignored, but he closes the door behind him and wanders out before they can make him feel bad about it. Karkat’s rummaging around in some file cabinet, so Dave takes the opportunity to glance around the rest of the building. Along the wall beside the cat room there’s a small rack of tanks, about three high and six across. The outsides look scratched and old, but the inside walls are bright and clean of algae, the water clear, and the fish healthy. Dave makes a surprised sound under his breath, and walks past the fish to where there’s another rank of tanks, these ones containing reptiles. The two structures are separated by a glass-faced fridge advertising frozen rodents in varying sizes and everything from bloodworms to brine shrimp.

Past the reptiles are bins full of live crickets, framed by cups of assorted worm species. He gets to what must be a door to the back room and turns right, past the aisle of fish and reptile accessories sitting opposite the two racks. There’s further aisles of supplies, with nothing more interesting than various bird cages lining the back wall. From the lack of inane screeching, Dave surmises there’s not actually any birds here.

The store quickly turns boring, made up of nothing but shelf after shelf of aquariums and vivariums. While he’s sure they’re all very interesting and unique, Dave doesn’t actually give a fuck. He completes his lap around the building, with the only remaining thing of interest being a large ferret cage he hadn’t noticed before tucked beside the register. Fifteen seconds into a staredown with one of the slinky weasel-wannabes, a voice cuts through the silence like a rusty axe.

“Do you want the cat or not.”

Glancing up over the top of his shades, Dave says, “Yes, I want the cat. How many litres of blood do you need?”

“You can start with this,” Karkat says, and slides a thick stack of paper across the counter.

Dave stares at it. “The fuck is this?”

“An adoption form.”

“I can read,” he says, inspecting the top page. “What’s the rest of it?”

For the smallest instant, Karkat almost looks gleeful. Dave swears that he must have hallucinated it, because he’s pretty sure this guy doesn’t actually feel anything other than a serious Napoleon complex. Still, he senses a badly muffled note of triumph in Karkat’s voice when waves his hand at the whole stack of paper. “That’s the adoption form. Fill it out and return it at your convenience. We only hold animals after a form has been submitted, so the longer you wait—”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“The management of Tank Time does not take chances on the safety of our animals, sir,” Karkat says, and while it’s the most professional thing he’s said all day, it’s also the most smug.

“This is at least twenty pages,” Dave says. “I’ve had final exams shorter than this.”

Karkat leans his elbows on the counter. “Your underachieving academic performance isn’t really any of my business. The adoption form consists of twelve pages of questions that are all highly successful in matching up pets with qualified caretakers. You have as much time as you need to complete each and every section.” Beat. “Unless you’re no longer interested.”

Dave snatches the adoption form off the counter, wrinkling all twelve pages in his overtight grip. “Thanks for your help.” The snow that hits his cheeks when he storms out the door melts on contact, leaving his face wet. By the time the bus comes to take him home, the many sheets of the adoption form are wrinkled and wilting in his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ch 2: return of the bad animal names.

The dog food that just landed on the counter is actually a pretty decent brand, so Karkat’s glare isn’t quite as potent as usual when he greets the person buying it. “Did you find everything you need alright?”

“Yes, I did,” says the woman, flashing a distracted smile as she rummages in her purse. Karkat scratches at the nail polish on his thumb while waiting for her to locate her card. “I just had one question. Are those ferrets for sale? I didn’t see a price tag.”

“They’re store pets, actually,” he responds smoothly. “Your total is $23.84. Is there anything else I can help you with today?” She shakes her head and mumbles no, already swiping her card. The receipt prints, and Karkat hands it to her, boredly reciting, “Here’s your receipt. Have a nice day and thank you for shopping at Tank Time.” The bell on the door clings, and he’s alone again. “Fucking finally,” he says, dropping onto his stool after the noon rush. ‘Rush’ is a generous term—mostly he just had a loose chain of customers coming in to buy crickets and aspen chips on their lunch breaks. Most of them aren’t particularly demanding, but it keeps his attention divided.

Karkat leans back against the bulk bird seed bins and pulls his notebook from under the counter, then shoves a bag of fish gravel out from where it was obscuring his phone, propped up against the back of a large fixture full of dog treats. Thanks to the myriad of junk cluttering the cashwrap, he’s able to pass his free time relatively obscured, and is easily able to hide his stuff before a customer makes it far enough into the store to see him. Pressing play on the video he was watching, Karkat settles in to continue taking notes for his next movie critique.

The door bell chimes.

He decidedly doesn’t groan, throwing his notebook back under the counter and pausing the video. Footsteps approach the counter just as he’s shoving the gravel in front of his phone again. “Can I help—”

“Hey, do you have reptiles?”

Karkat stares reproachfully, then admits, “Yes. We do.”

“Where are they?” The skinny white kid looks like some kind of tweaker, with an oversized hatchetman hoodie and long hair that hasn’t been brushed since 2013, if ever. Karkat doesn’t have an emergency button because who the fuck is going to shoot up a pet store, though he does carry a pocketknife and a passport in case he has to flee the country unexpectedly.

Pushing out the swinging door, he says, “Right this way,” and shuffles to the far aisle where the live pets reside. The white kid shoves past him, immediately pressing his hands to the tankfronts Karkat _just_ windexed an hour ago.

“Do you have any, like, tarantulas?”

“Sold out.”

“Is that a scorpion?”

“Yes. Have you ever been stung by one?”

“Holy shit, that’s a big lizard.”

“He’ll grow bigger,” Karkat hisses through his teeth, toes digging into the bottom of his shoes.

“I want that one.”

Tilting his head, Karkat examines the tweaker, on his knees with his finger jabbed at the bearded dragon enclosure, sitting closest to the floor. There’s three juveniles in there right now, but he’ll need to take the biggest out and put him in his own vivarium within the next six months. Maybe he can clear the gravel bags out from under the hermit crab tank and put him under there… But for now, he has bigger problems than a quickly growing lizard. “Do you know what that’s called?” he asks, affording a thin veneer of patience.

“Ummmm…”

“It’s a bearded dragon. Do you know how big they get?”

“Well—”

“Are they desert or tropical?”

“The carpet is brown like a desert, so—”

“Do you know the requirements for a desert enclosure? What temperature should the basking spot be? What’s the purpose of full spectrum lighting?”

“Uh, I don’t…”

“What’s the recommended diet for a juvenile dragon versus an adult?”

“Dude.”

Karkat crosses his arms. “Go home. Do some research. Come back. Or better yet, don’t come back. These animals deserve better than some punk who thinks it’s a good idea to get a pet he doesn’t even know the name of.” The white kid actually looks kind of sad, frowning hard at the enclosure and avoiding Karkat’s eyes. It makes him feel twitchy in the feeling places, so Karkat runs a hand through his thick hair and sighs. “Okay, look. Come with me.” The kid stands up mutely and follows him down two aisles, then to the right. “See this? This is a three hundred dollar reptile enclosure. This is the minimum space requirement for a single adult bearded dragon. If you don’t have that kind of money or space, this isn’t the right pet for you. Got it?”

The kid nods.

“Okay, hey,” Karkat says, grabbing the front of his shirt and dragging him back to the reptiles. “Let me tell you some things. Leopard geckos are good reptiles for beginners. They don’t get too big and are easy to handle if you train them right and respect their boundaries. Remember, there’s no _easy_ pet, and _throwaway_ pets don’t fuc— um, they don’t exist, _but_.” He reaches toward a file on the side of the reptile tanks, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “This is a care sheet for leopard geckos. Read it all. Memorize it like it’s your new Bible. Hush, don’t speak. I’m serious. There’s a non-negotiable supplies list in the back complete with prices and tax factored in. In two weeks if you still want a pet, come back and talk to me. No more looking like your hopes and dreams have been crushed by a rampaging herd of near-extinct rhinoceroses; this is about an animal’s life and comfort, not anyone’s hurt feelings. It’s not personal or anything.”

When the kid continues to look dejected, Karkat shoves the care sheet at his chest forcefully, cheeks heating. “Just take it. If you come back in two weeks, I’ll let you hold one, okay?”

“Can I see which one is the gecko?”

“Leopard gecko,” Karkat corrects, because they also have cresteds, and then, “Sure. They’re in these two tanks right here.” He used to just have one, but when he moved the hermit crabs to their own 125 gallon tank in the front, he co-opted the empty tank space for the older geckos. “The juveniles are in this one, and the adults are in this one. There’s pros and cons to both.”

He waits, almost generously, as the guy stares in wonder at the tangerine who’s taking a sip from his water bowl. “How much is that one?”

“We’ll talk about pricing once you’ve done your reading,” Karkat says firmly, taking the opportunity to physically manhandle the stack of papers into the kid’s hand. “Now get out of my store.” To his horror, he actually _hugs him_ , long and lanky arms squishing around Karkat’s stiff shoulders. He smells like weed and body odor and blueberry compote, and Karkat is going to have a panic attack if he doesn’t stop touching him.

“Thanks, brother,” he says, sporting a lopsided grin.

“You can thank me by leaving,” Karkat says, brushing invisible cooties off his sweater. “But yeah, whatever.”

Finally, the guy turns around and leaves, but before Karkat can relax, someone yells “Karkat!” behind him.

“Um, yes, Mr. Kulkarni?” Karkat’s boss usually doesn’t come out of the office. He enters through the back door, does paperwork for a few hours a week, then leaves, usually without ever talking to Karkat, unless he’s done something wrong. Karkat didn’t even hear him come in for the day.

Ajit Kulkarni, who owns Tank Time, is a medium height, stocky man who looks exactly like the kind of person who would throw all his free time into making glass boxes for a living. The store is actually more of a formality, which is why he’s almost never around. Since getting his online commissions off the ground, most of his money is made on the exorbitant shipping fees he charges to cart his custom tanks all over the country. “I was looking through some of your order forms. You haven’t ordered tree frogs in the last three months.”

“We haven’t sold any,” he says, shifting to glance in the direction of the reptile tanks, as if he could see through the multiple shelves in front of them. “If I ordered more, the tank would be overcrowded. Sir.”

“Animal sales are down almost ten percent from last holiday season. We’ve had more overall traffic since you cleared out the supply room out for cat adoptions, but yesterday I got a call from the Animal Shelter asking when we’d need more adoptees. When was the last time a cat actually left this store?”

“People would rather get free kittens from their irresponsible cousin-in-law than pay to adopt adult cats in need of homes,” Karkat grumbles. “That’s not my fault.”

“No, it’s not, but— Why is the sign off the hermit crab tank again?”

“It keeps falling,” Karkat says quickly, glancing at the enclosure. “I was just about to make a new one, sir.” He wouldn’t have had to lie if he hadn’t been too distracted by that weirdly pathetic drugged up white kid to hear Mr. Kulkarni walk in and was able to put the sign back up before he came to look at the sales floor.

Mr. Kulkarni inspects him critically. Although Karkat knows he’s been the best employee (as far as pet care, anyway) this store has ever had, he only really got the job because he’s the only other Indian person in the small town, and Mr. Kulkarni felt bad for him having to live on tips and some under-the-table cash from the delivery company he worked for after getting out of foster care. He still makes only a little over minimum wage, but he’s full time and gets some benefits so he can’t really complain about it. “Fish sales are doing good,” Mr. Kulkarni says finally. “Try to get those ferrets sold. I’m sick of the way they smell.”

“I’ll try, Mr. Kulkarni.” Then he’s gone, and Karkat lets out a whoosh of air, stumbling back to cashwrap so he can sit down.

It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ people to have pets. Rather, he hates seeing animals go to bad homes. Two years ago, when he first started and they still carried birds, someone tried to return a dead parakeet hours after they bought it, because they left the tote in the hot car and it died. It was one of several mildly traumatising events that convinced him that, so long as he found ways to get away with it, his purpose in life while employed at Tank Time was to absolutely, unerringly, refuse to let a single animal through the doors without doubtless assurance that they would be properly cared for.

Also, well. He just can’t stand seeing them go.

“Speaking of ferrets,” he says to himself. Their cage needs to be cleaned.

Karkat is bent over a garbage bag full of used carefresh, a harnessed ferret running across his shoulders, when the dreaded bell alerts him to the arrival of yet another customer. He doesn’t move to greet them, because he’s fucking busy and they can help their own selves; if they need something, he’s making enough noise and they can ask like an adult. Footsteps walk up behind him, then stop. He waits for a voice, but all he gets is silence. The ferret starts rummaging through his hair, trying to locate an ear to chew on. “Quit it, Popcorn,” he says, rising and plucking the furry troublemaker off his shoulder.

“What’s with you and these dumb ass pet names?” a voice asks. “Like, I assume you’re the one who thought it was a good idea to name a cat Edwina.” Scowling, Karkat spins around and is met with the sight of a pale-haired boy wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie and sunglasses indoors, when it’s almost winter and there’s barely any sunlight _anyway_. In his hand is a heavily water damaged stack of paper. “Anyway, I finished your stupid form. Almost. I just need the ID number for the cat. Forgot to get it last time before I left.”

It’s not the first time someone has completed the form. Sollux’s compilation of every single question found on adoption sheets around the world (plus whatever sounded good at the time) makes quite the formidable opponent, but some people are obtuse enough to not question why the amount of dependents claimed on their W2 form is relevant to a cat adoption.

Still. Karkat remembers this guy from a week ago, and he looked pretty pissed when he left. He was almost certain he’d managed to gently convince the customer to take his business elsewhere.

No such luck.

Karkat sneers. “Forgetting the information on the cat you wanted is exactly the kind of responsible behaviour I look for when adopting out an animal. How did you know.”

“I didn’t forget shit,” he says. “Her name is Dumpling.” He holds out the adoption form like proof, and when Karkat checks, all the information on her is correct except for the identification, which he was technically responsible for filling out himself, anyway.

Snatching the form out of—looks like… Dave Strider? And he has the audacity to complain about _Karkat’s_ naming habits?—Dave’s hand, Karkat shoves the squirming ferret under his arm and walks around to the entrance behind the counter. The swinging door bumps into the edge of the ferret pen where Lucille and Tomas are resting and trying to chew through the bars, respectively. He sets Popcorn down with the other two, unclipping the leash from his harness, and then edges around the large pen to the adoption binder. He digs out Dumpling’s file, flips through it, and then marks down her number where he was supposed to. Shoving the badly wrinkled form into the binder, he slams it closed and jams it back into the file cabinet.

“We’ll review your responses and call you back with the results in two to four weeks,” he says blandly, dipping down to scoop Lucille into his arms so he can tickle her adorable sleepy belly.

Dave’s face flickers through several not-quite-expressions. “Two to four weeks? Dude. I can’t wait that long.”

“Then go somewhere else,” Karkat says, hoping he will. He likes Dumpling. He doesn’t like Dave.

“How many customers do you even get a day? Why can’t you look at it right now.”

His jaw clenches and Karkat feels the back of his neck prickle with anger. “ _Because_ my manager needs to look through the form before I can continue with the adoption process, and he isn’t here every day.” It’s true, too, even though Mr. Kulkarni would take five minutes to approve the adoption and technically doesn’t know about the form of doom, anyway...

“Okay, so why doesn’t that take a week, max.”

“He’s on vacation,” Karkat blurts out, face turning red. Lucille squirms in his grip, which he immediately loosens.

Dave seems to sag after that, running his fingers through his hair. “Shit.”

Karkat is about to drive home the least sympathetic response he can muster when a clatter behind him stops his train of thought cold. He whirls around to see two ferrets blinking in surprise after their combined efforts to scale the side of the pen managed to undo the closure linking the panels together, loosened when Karkat accidentally bumped into it. The panel hangs open, resting where it banged against the swinging counter door, and then there’s only one ferret.

Karkat manages to scoop Popcorn into his free hand, but Tomas is already under the door and out of cashwrap, bolting like an employee trying not to be crushed by a wave of overzealous Black Friday shoppers. Barging out like a similarly overzealous wildebeast, Karkat frantically looks around trying to spot him, but his hands are full of two other ferrets and he has no idea what to do.

“He’s right there,” someone says, pointing down aisle 2, and Karkat is surprised to see the boy standing beside him looking alarmed until he realizes that he didn’t actually leave.

“Where?”

“He’s, look— shit!” Dave weaves around Karkat and runs over to the aisle, hands raised halfway into the air like he’s trying to catch a bird instead of something that only stands an inch or two off the floor.

The only thing Karkat can think of to say is, “Be careful! Their bones are very fucking delicate, you could crush him!” He hurries after Dave, still clutching Popcorn and Lucille. He arrives just in time to see Tomas disappear under one of the shelves. “Shit, oh god,” Karkat says, dropping to his knees and trying to peer under the very large unit in hopes of finding one very small ferret. He can’t see him in the dark, through thick layers of unswept dust, and so he goes to stand up, but he struggles to get on his feet again while both his hands are occupied.

“Here,” Dave says, and Karkat blinks up to see the Ninja Turtles hoodie half unzipped and held open in front of him. Absurdly, his only thought is that he can’t believe this idiot is wearing only a tank top in November. Then he shoves Lucille and Popcorn into the pocket made by Dave’s sweatshirt and only stays long enough to see Dave zip it up to trap them inside before he books it into aisle three to frantically search for his loose charge.

“Tomas,” he cajoles, “Come on you stupid shitting troublemaker, come to Karkat. You really don’t want to be lost in here, where someone clumsy and terrible could step on you and break your awful little adorably bendy spine, come on, please don’t— Ah!” Tomas is halfway up the screen front of a chameleon cage, but he gets spooked and scurries off as Karkat approaches, then proceeds to try and wriggle his way between the bird food bins. “Don’t fucking do that!” he shouts, because they’re heavy and hard to move and there’s tons of dust and spiders back there. Tomas rounds to the right, making a beeline for the gap between the fish tanks and the freezer, but before he can get his nose into the space, a flat object intercepts his progress, blocking him from his escape route and giving Karkat the precious seconds needed to sweep Tomas into his weak and trembling arms.

Dave calmly puts the lid back on the jar of dog treats, his left arm wrapped protectively around two writhing lumps under the fabric of his hoodie. He looks suspiciously calm, barely even breathing hard. “We good, bro?” he asks after a moment. You stare down at Tomas, covered in dust bunnies and cobwebs but otherwise safe in your hands, and resist the urge to scream and/or cry.

“What’s all the shouting for?”

“Mr. Kulkarni! I, uh.” Dave is staring at him oddly, and Karkat’s face goes hot. “I didn’t realize you were still… here…”

“I’m going to be away for a few days, so I need to get the orders sent in today so they’ll arrive on time next week,” Mr. Kulkarni says.

It takes every single ounce of strength Karkat has to not start relief-sobbing on the spot. He forces a weak, triumphant half-smile. “Right. Well, before you go, I have a favour to ask…”

“Yes, ask away, but you still didn’t tell me what the noise was.”

Dave takes that moment to unzip his hoodie, catching a ferret in each hand and holding them both up like a sacrifice to the sun god. “Uh, not to interrupt, but what can I do with these?”

Mr. Kulkarni blinks. “Is this young man buying the ferrets?”

“No!” Karkat shouts, then clears his throat. “No, he just. Helped me catch them.”

“Catch them?”

“One got out,” Dave says, gesturing with Lucille toward the one still curled against Karkat’s chest. Her lower body flops obligingly with the movement.

“Give that to me,” grumbles Karkat, loading his arms up with all three precious terrors and carrying them over to the clean cage. He still has to put more bedding in, but that shouldn’t be a problem. He pointedly ignores the sound of Mr. Kulkarni thanking Dave for his help and making idle smalltalk while Karkat gets the ferrets settled. It takes him longer than it needs to to carefully wipe every single inch of dust off Tomas’ fur—he won’t admit it’s because he’s nervous about what Dave will say to Mr. Kulkarni. Karkat’s well aware that he pushes the boundaries of acceptability, but he is extremely careful about ensuring none of the worst of it reaches Mr. Kulkarni’s notice. He doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s more scared of losing his job or looking like he’s taking advantage of Mr. Kulkarni’s trust. It’s probably some combination of both, which would then be overshadowed by fear of what would happen to all the animals without him there to care for them.

The sound of his voice being called makes him lift his head, squinting warily over the ferret cage. “What was it you wanted to ask me?” Mr. Kulkarni enquires.

“Oh.” Karkat latches the cage good and tight, then walks around to let himself behind the cashwrap, avoiding the still splayed panels of the ferret pen as he navigates over to the file cabinet. “I was hoping you’d look over this adoption form before you left…” As he’s walking out onto the sales floor, he quietly rips the bottom ten pages straight off the staple and drops them all in the trash.

Normally he puts the entire thing in the trash, only noting down the phone number to call so he can tell the person they’ve been rejected. This time he feels he owes it to Dave, after what just happened, to give him at least a tiny glimmer of hope before Karkat brings down the ultimate, final ‘hell fucking no.’

As expected, Mr. Kulkarni scans the first page of the form in about twenty-five seconds tops, and doesn’t even bother looking at the second page before he hands the form back. “Looks good to me. If you have everything under control, I’ll be going back to the office now. I have to be out of here and on a plane by five o’clock.”

“Have a good trip, Mr. Kulkarni,” Karkat says to his already retreating back.

The back door closes, and the store descends into silence.

“So,” says Dave.

“I’ll call you with information on the second part of the adoption process before the end of the week,” Karkat says grudgingly.

Dave’s face twitches, but only a little. “What? There’s more?”

Karkat snorts. Almost laughs, but not quite. “You bet your stupid aviator shades there’s more. You need to call and set up an interview.”

“What more could you possibly need to know?”

“The interview,” Karkat says boredly, “will focus more on husbandry and the individual feline’s needs rather than suitability. We’ve determined you’re capable of _being_ a good caretaker, but I still have to decide whether or not you’d be a good match for Dumpling, specifically.”

Dave is silent for at least half a minute, and then he says: “Fuck you, man.”

The only reason Karkat allows himself to smile is because he’s confident that there’s no way of interpreting it as a nice smile, under any conceivable context or from any physically possible angle. He flicks the dust from the day’s chase off his sweater and steps behind the counter, where he throws the rest of the adoption form away and doesn’t care if Dave sees. The bell jingles, and someone walks through the door. “Hi there, welcome to Tank Time,” Karkat says, deliberately turning away from Dave as he goes to greet the new customer. “Can I help you find anything today?”

In his peripheral, he sees Dave slide half his body through the swinging door—just enough so he can stick his hand into the garbage can and pull out the discarded form. He keeps Dave in his line of vision as he tells the woman information on pricing for custom tanks and stand options. Before he’s finished, Dave walks around the corner, sliding the rumpled paper over to him, folded in half with the written side out. The door chimes once, and he’s gone.

Karkat spends the next quarter hour helping the woman debate between getting a tank tailored exactly to her space availability, or rearranging her entire living room to accommodate an existing model. She thanks him and leaves without making a decision. He wanders back to the counter, idly picking up the abandoned adoption form. Someone left greasy fingerprints on it.

He’s halfway to returning it to the trash when he notices writing on the inside of the fold, and curiously opens it to reveal the back of the paper.

‘i fucking hate you,’ it reads, followed by a list of weekdays with availability scribbled beside each one. Karkat huffs a barely audible laugh, folds the paper back up, and shoves it back in the still-open drawer of the file cabinet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i srsly can't believe so many of y'all are actually enjoying listening to karkat rant about pet care but damn if i won't take it
> 
> EDIT: i totes forgot i have ((([a tumblr](http://hermitcrabwithwings.tumblr.com/)))) and it's dead af rn but i'm 100% gonna post teasers and ask for suggestions on it at some point during this fic so follow me/check in once in a while the URL is hermitcrabwithwings and linked just above!!


	3. Chapter 3

Every instinct Dave has tells him he shouldn’t be putting up with this shit, and yet here he is, jamming his headphone plug into his phone while his feet approach his shoes in a similar fashion. The back portion of one shoe gets stuck under his heel and he trips trying to adjust it without taking the shoe off, but if no one is around to see it, did it really happen?

His computer bleeps at him, plaintive. Longing. His followers are pissed that he cut his usual livestream short, and he’s going to be hearing about it, and had better churn out some shitty fanservice to make them stop bitching. Thing is, it’s not his fault. He wrote down his availability for the adoption interview, but when Karkat called him back (finally) he said the only time he had available was at the ass end of Dave’s weekly Thursday stream and blandly reminded him that he was welcome to void out his application and find a cat elsewhere if he couldn’t make it.

It’s a lie. It’s obviously a lie. Dave isn’t quite creepy enough to straight up stalk the company’s weekly traffic, but he knows that there’s plenty of downtime during the average work day at Tank Time, and Karkat probably just selected a time that interfered with Dave’s schedule to test him.

And that’s the rub.

At this point it’s ninety percent sunk-cost investment, with the final ten percent still consisting of general laziness. Yes, he could give up and go to Petco. Yes, he could be defeated by some shitty retail slave with a bad attitude. Or, he could step up to the plate and catch every damn curveball Karkat throws at him.

Dave wants to beat Karkat at his own game. Dave wants to _win_.

So he slings a jacket over his shoulders and pulls a red knit beanie over his ears. It’s getting a bit cold to wear just a hoodie, and besides… his TMNT one hasn’t smelled the same since the last time he was at the pet store. Dave is pretty sure one of the ferrets actually peed on him, and he hasn’t gotten desperate enough to do laundry yet, so. Jacket.

He puts his computer to sleep, leaving his apartment in blissful silence for about thirty seconds until his phone catches the next alert and pings. Dave sighs and meanders out to the bus stop, at which point he silences his phone and refuses to succumb to despair.

Tank Time’s glaring storefront gleams at him like a bad omen: a beacon promising naught but hardship and strife. Somewhere in that greasy exterior is a heart full of warm, fluffy cats and it is guarded by a pissy five foot tall dragon who has a vendetta against combs. Now, all Dave needs to do is knight the fuck up and save Princess Dumpling from her tower prison, except he’s sincerely questioning how long his apathetic armor will last against Karkat’s firebreath. Dave makes a point to approach the front door from an angle, because he swears that he heard something growling in the trashcan and he doesn’t have enough power-ups to last him _two_ battles.

The ringing of the door bell is starting to be a physical manifestation of Dave’s pride and sanity coursing down the drain, but it’s cool. It’s not like talking to Rose is any different (or not talking, as it were). He feels the uncanny sense of déjà vu when he steps in and sees absolutely no one, but Dave is getting the impression that this is pretty normal for the business’ aesthetic. “Yo,” he says, to the empty aisles barely visible behind the heavily cluttered cashwrap.

“Back here,” calls a voice in response. Dave follows it to the reptile unit, where Karkat is crouched down over an open tank with a sizable, electric blue lizard draped over his shoulders.

“Do you have a thing for making me chase down your merchandise or something? Because I’m not fucking with the large reptile market. I did a whole report in middle school about the ways a komodo dragon can fuck a person’s shit up.”  
  
“This is an iguana,” Karkat says, pulling his arms out from the large tank and wiping his hands on his jeans. “And Machiavelli would never bolt like that.”  
  
Dave almost snorts. “You and those names, man.” He watches as Karkat carefully pulls the blue iguana from around his neck and sets it on his lap, patting its flat head in front of the trail of spines that extends down its back. Eventually Karkat eases the reptile, who seems rather reluctant about the affair, back into its enclosure. “Not that finding out you’re a reptile whisperer isn’t fascinating, but I’m kind of on a schedule here.” He really isn’t. He doesn’t have anything to do today aside from appeasing his followers for the earlier slight. They might pay his bills, but they sure as fuck are demanding as hell about it. Karkat doesn’t need to know that, though.

“How am I supposed to believe you’ll have availability for a cat if you can’t wait five minutes? Pets are not predictable. What will you do about vet visits?” Karkat locks the enclosure then stands up, frowning. Dave gets distracted thinking about how Karkat’s been wearing that same grey sweater every time he’s seen him. He wonders if the guy ever switches it up.

“Dude, I’ll schedule cat stuff in,” he says, even if it’s a lie, because the cat isn’t even going to be his. He somehow doubts Karkat will be receptive to the gift part of acquiring Dumpling, so he conveniently leaves it out. “Right now I don’t have a cat, so it ain’t on the menu. Funny thing about menus, though, is that they can change. They evolve. I don’t eat Kraft Mac n Cheese all day every day just because I made four things of Easy Mac one Sunday night when I lost control of my life.”

Karkat eyes him contemplatively. “That was more information than I ever needed to know. Follow me.” Dave does, but when Karkat steps behind the counter, he pauses, then goes around the front to the register. Karkat doesn’t seem to notice, until he looks up and doesn’t see Dave around. “Are you capable of following basic instructions?” he asks acerbically, inspecting Dave over a box of cat toys. “Get over here.”

Reluctantly, Dave shuffles back the way he came and steps through the swinging door, letting it fall behind him. It catches his thighs on the backswing because he didn’t step away quickly enough, but Karkat is too busy arranging a fold-out chair to notice so Dave doesn’t make any indication that it happened. “Are you always here alone?” Dave wonders, more acutely noticing the lack of other employees, or even a manager to watch the front while Karkat performs the interview.

“Customers happen,” Karkat says.

“Yeah, no shit. Where are your coworkers?” .

Karkat frowns at nothing, then plops himself down into a beaten up desk chair. “Don’t have any. Sit down. This is about your shitty life, not mine.”

“Wow,” Dave says, settling himself in his place much more coolly. “How do you get away with insulting customers as often as you do? Genuine question.”

“So, your application says you’re twenty-one. Is that true, Mr. Strider?”

Um. “Um, yes?”

Karkat squints at the notebook he’s holding in front of him, and then squints at Dave. “Are you sure? You sound like you’re thinking about it. Are you nervous?”

“Holy shit,” Dave says, threading his fingers into his hair. “This is an adoption, not an interrogation. Yes, I’m twenty-one. My birthday is December third. That is the day my mother hunkered down before the salted earth on which she made her home and ejected me from the womb—”

“ _Moving on_. In your own words, describe your motivation for adding a feline companion animal to your life.”

Dave pauses. Of all the questions on the application, this wasn’t one of them, at least not in so many words. He doesn’t really want a cat, but again, telling Karkat that he lost Rose’s beloved pet and now has to find a replacement so she’ll stop shunning him sounds like a one-way road to Fucking Denied-ville. Shit out of luck, out of gas, and out of sisterly companionship for the near and far future. He’s quiet like he’s seriously contemplating a good answer instead of panicking, and when he finally opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “I live alone.”

Just when he’s sure that he blew it, something that looks suspiciously like understanding flickers across Karkat’s face for a split second. He scratches something on his notebook, then moves on without another word on the subject. “What about Dumpling’s care card made you think she’d be a good match for your household?”

Yet again, Dave doesn’t know how to answer. “I dunno, she was soft and kind of bitchy? It made me think of my sister.”

Karkat’s face is much less understanding this time around. “Are you taking this seriously at all?”

This time Dave doesn’t waste brain cells trying to come up with an acceptable answer. “I actually think this is a crock of shit, to be honest. I don’t need to offer some philosophical breakdown of why I want a cat, or why I want one cat in particular above the other equally nice cats. I don’t have any roommates or other pets. I know how to put food and water into bowls. I know how to jiggle a string. There’s literally nothing else I can say. I’m not going to engage in some quasi-intellectual horseshit just to prove to you I’ve thought hard enough about the reality of courting a creature that shits in a box seven days out of the week. Do you need to know where in my apartment I’d keep that box? Because I actually don’t know the answer to that, and maybe _that_ would be an actually useful thing to ask me, instead of whatever-the-fuck you’re currently doing.”

Sputtering, Karkat growls back, “These are _important compatibility questions_ —”

“No,” Dave interrupts, “they’re not. That’s the thing. Here, let me save you some time. I work at home. I don’t go out much and all my friends are online. If this cat needs any amount of love and support, I will be there to provide it. I will nurture the fuck out of this wanton feline. I’m not particularly attached to my sleep, because I have shitty nightmares, so if she makes any sort of weird howly noises at night, I’ll deal with it and she won’t end up in someone’s compost collector. I have enough disposable income to provide her with a cat castle befitting of a goddamn queen, and whatever fancy ass specialty food you recommend. My apartment only has one bedroom, but it’s pretty big so if she’s one of those cats who do that manic run-around-for-no-reason thing, she’s got plenty of space to not accidentally hit any walls or whatever. I’ll let her sleep in my bed, if she wants to, I guess.”

He stops, and clears his throat, and shoves his hands into his pockets and leans back in the chair, dipping his head down and staring through his shades at the stitching on his pants. “So there’s that. Anything I missed?”

Karkat is staring at him like he just confessed to being made of playdough, or born into a family of ostriches, or having a fetish for fucking the exhaust pipe on strangers’ cars. Without looking away, Karkat grips the corner of the page he was writing on, and slowly tears it from the rest of the book. It crumples easily in his hand, and then is tossed across the small cashwrap space into a trashcan. Despite Karkat not sighting anything, it goes in, which is surprisingly… cool. For a dork like him.

Still not talking, Karkat pushes his knees up and inspects his fingernails critically. It looks like the black has been repainted, though it’s still chipped. Probably because he won’t stop picking at it. Finally, he drops his hand to his side, and frowns at Dave over the tops of his knees. “If that’s all the information you want to provide, then I think we can consider this interview finished.”

“Cool.”

“You can go now,” Karkat adds, finally looking away.

Dave does similarly. “Cool.” He stands up, brushes invisible dust from his thighs, and turns to leave.

“Don’t put the litterbox near where you keep the food,” Karkat says. He hasn’t moved, and is now studiously avoiding eye contact. “I shouldn’t have to explain why something might not want to eat right by where it shits.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Dave says absently, giving Karkat a weird look. “Does this mean you’re letting me have the cat, or.”

“ _No_ ,” Karkat says aggressively, shooting out of his chair. “It means that if you do get a cat, maybe from here, maybe from somewhere else, at least now you know where to put the box. When someone helps you with something, the polite response is to say thank you.”

Dave snorts, because Karkat of all people giving tips on etiquette. “Thanks, man. When do I get my, uh, results?”

Karkat scratches the back of his neck. “I’ll call you. I have to go over my notes with my manager.”

“You threw your notes away.”

“I’ll make new ones.”

“Need me to stick around?”

“No. God, no. Please continue to leave.” Dave only half obliges. He does exit the cashwrap, wandering around the length of the counter and noting the dust on some of the box tops. It’s weird how run-down some of the store’s details are, compared to the obviously obsessive care Karkat takes when it comes to the animal-related parts of the business. He passes the exit on his right, tracking two fingers through the dust covering the far corner of the counter, which melds into a predictably immaculate ferret cage. Dave wipes his hand off on his pants, then jams it up against the grate to see if he can entice any of the weird cat snakes to come near him. “What are you doing,” Karkat asks. “Why are you still here.”

Although he knows they all have names, Dave can’t tell them apart, but one does eventually walk over to chew on his fingers. It doesn’t hurt enough to bother him, so he doesn’t take his hand away. “This is a public place,” he offers blandly. “I have as much right to be here as you do.”

“Incorrect,” says Karkat, but Dave ignores him, pulling out his phone with his free hand.

“Okay, so. It’s the twelveth. It took you over a week last time to contact me. Obviously genius can’t be rushed, so I won’t expect results by tomorrow.” Karkat looks like he isn’t sure if he should be offended or not, which is hilarious because Dave did the opposite of insulting him. He likes to keep people on their toes. “Then there’s the weekend, which usually isn’t included in the typical ‘response zone’ for business days, so we’ll give you that too. Monday, eh, you’re shitty and tired from the weekend. I get it. Tuesday, though.” Dave clicks out from the calendar app and sets his phone down. “I think I can reasonably request details on the nature of my fate by Tuesday. Deal?”

“Not a deal,” Karkat growls.

Dave raises a hand to silence him. “Or I can hit up your boss, unless he’s still on vacation.” Karkat closes his mouth. He actually looks scared, which prompts Dave to generously add: “Look, I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I’m just trying to adopt a fuckin’ cat, and if you need to drag me through some annoying and frankly nonsensical hell gauntlet before you’re comfortable entrusting me with the care of furry sentient life, fine, but at _least_ be timely about it.”

The plan is to give Karkat some processing time before driving the final nail through the coffin, but Dave’s rapid-fire one-liner selection is interrupted by a curt, “Fine. I’ll call you by Tuesday.”

Dave blinks, because he didn’t actually expect any of this to work. After realizing that he just managed to counter Karkat’s bullshit, however, a savage thrill runs up his spine. Yes, Dave Strider just conquered the first level of Retail Hell. Defeated the sweater-clad final boss and left him squalling like a lowly imp.

The metaphor would probably have continued to sprawl in his head had Karkat not decided to interrupt, demanding, “Will you leave _now?_ I have shit to do, Strider.”

“Don’t swear in front of customers,” Dave says absently, watching the ferret paw at the cage bars as he withdraws his by now well-chewed flesh.

“Don’t tell me what to fu—” Karkat clears his throat. “You’re not my boss.”  
  
“Yeah, okay.” Dave stuffs his hand into his pocket and walks back around to the front of the counter. “I’ll talk to you on Tuesday then.”

“Yeah.”

“Looking forward to it,” he adds, resisting the urge to smirk a little.

“I can’t say the same,” Karkat sneers, but it seems halfhearted. He knows he’s lost, or at least Dave’s biased projection of his internal monologue knows he lost. It doesn’t really matter, because Dave is confident that he won. That comfort alone gets his ass out the door and to the bus stop without any more nasty quips or pointed barbs. Karkat put up a good fight and has earned the luxury of being able to recuperate and gather power-ups for when they meet in the next level, which is hopefully the last. Dave has been fairly engaged by the hijinks so far, but can see his tolerance waning significantly if forced to put up with much more of this bullshit.

He muses on the bus about Karkat’s weird and defensive behaviour regarding the care of the animals, halfway wondering if there's a reason for it while simultaneously not wanting to edge into the Lalonde family territory of being creepily invested in other people's personal issues. Despite his hesitation, Dave is buried so deeply in thought that he doesn't notice the fire hydrant coming up on his side until the bus has already swerved into it.

There's some details about a biker and a wayward smart car that float down the line of bus passengers, but Dave is mostly dazed after having been thrown against the seat in front of his. Nothing feels broken, and after a few minutes his brain returns to a somewhat solid state that allows for rational thought.

His first thought is to call Rose and ask her to take him to urgent care to make sure he doesn't have a concussion or whiplash or a severed spine. His second thought is: what the fuck.

There's no phone in his pocket.

Dave runs through his recent memory but he doesn't need to go back that far. He's betting on his iPhone being right where he left it: on top of the damn ferret cage when he was squaring off with Karkat. Fuck him in every single hole he owns. (Dave doesn’t know if he’s referring to himself or Karkat.)

A sensible person would borrow someone else's phone to call a cab, but Dave is far more antisocial than people realize. His head is mostly clear by the time he starts making his way to the bus exit, only stumbling a little bit. The bus driver asks him if he’s okay, but he needs to get off. Dave doesn’t remember saying it, but he must have, because next thing he knows there’s cold almost-winter air hitting him in the face. Just in time, too, because there’s cops and an ambulance siren; he can see the lights flashing as he moves away, one step at a time, stiff, ow, pain, head spinning, okay, okay, okay. His beanie is gone, and he didn't notice it falling off, but he doesn't care enough to go back and look for it. Rose can knit him another one.

The trip takes him twice as long as it should have, and at one point he thinks he spends twenty minutes asleep on a bench, but by the time Dave gets back to the dungeon that captured his poor iPhone, he feels fine. Sore, but fine. So maybe his head hurts? Whatever. He’ll get his phone, call… someone. Yeah.

Whatever happens next is obscured in confusion when Dave looks through the grime and sees Karkat with a customer, looking… not unhappy? Not full of hatred? What?

There’s a box with holes on it on the counter next to where Karkat is setting a sheet of paper—just one—but that gets lost in the blur of Dave opening the door to get a better look, because some facts are universal and the pet store employee’s bad mood was supposed to be one of those things, and he just got hit by a bus (kind of) and now he feels _lied to_. (It could be the closed head injury talking, but shh.)

“Dave? What the fuck are you doing back?” Karkat asks, blinking up at him. He looks almost guilty.

“Forgot my phone,” Dave says, looking around as if he doesn’t know exactly where it is. “What’s going on? I thought you were physically incapable of contorting your facial muscles into anything that in any way resembled a smile.”  
  
“I wasn’t _smiling_ —” Karkat begins, which would be hilariously defensive considering the accusation was ‘being pleasant for once,’ but his protest is cut into by a loud yowl, and that’s when Dave notices the Asian girl standing across the counter from Karkat.

To clarify: the girl didn’t produce the yowl, but she does respond to it by pressing her nose up against the box which Dave had previously written off as irrelevant. She shoves her finger in one of the holes and purrs, “There, there, Mister Charles! It’s okay. You’ll be out of the box soon.”

“It’s Sir Charles,” Karkat corrects automatically, before his eyes flicker back to Dave, who starts to understand.

“Y’know,” Dave says, forced casual, “When someone adopts an animal, they usually get to pick what they’re going to name it.”

Karkat at first looks ashamed, and then looks indignant. “Yeah, well. Some people actually _care_ about their pet’s comfort zone and realize that familiarity—”

“Dude, are you accusing me of not caring? Is that what this is about?” The Asian girl stares between each boy curiously, distracted momentarily from what Dave has surmised to be a box full of awesome cat. It’s pretty lame to be emoting about cats in front of a stranger—or anyone, really—but Dave just got slammed into a plastic bus seat so he’s feeling a bit keyed up. “Because I hope it’d be obvious I give a shit by now after all the hell you’ve put me through—”

“I’m going to sign this,” the Asian girl says, not quite interrupting. She reaches over to grab the pen from Karkat’s fist, his brown skin gone white with how hard he’s clenched it, and scribbles on the paper he’d been presenting her before Dave barged in. “Anything else I have to do?” she asks, glancing at Dave under her eyelashes before she looks back to Karkat.

“No,” Karkat says, sounding strangled. “You’re all set, Nepeta.”

“Thanks! I’ll bring pictures!” She lifts the box containing Sir Charles from the counter, blows Karkat a kiss, and avoids looking at Dave as she slides around him and out the door.

_Ch-ching._

The bell rings, and then the store is silent.

“If I wasn’t at least ninety percent sure that you had no idea who I was before I came in here the first time,” Dave says, “I’d think this was personal.”

“It’s not—”

The door opens behind Dave, who steps out of the way as quickly as he can. He gets a headrush, which is largely ignored by the short, reedy man who shuffles around him and makes his way toward the counter. “I need one hundred large crickets,” he informs Karkat, who grunts as a way of response and then exits cashwrap, leaving Dave standing with the strange man in the front of the store.

Dave takes a few steps backward, then disappears around the ferret cage, slithering through an aisle and around the back so he comes up on Karkat from behind. His voice is a hissing whisper. “What exactly is your fucking problem?”

Karkat looks startled, but recovers quickly. He’s funneling some truly massive insects into a clear plastic bag, face scrunched as he counts them in midair. “I don’t have a problem. You’re the one getting possessive over a cat adoption. Possessiveness is a precursor to abusive behaviour within a relationship. You should see someone about that.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil. I’ll keep it in mind.” Dave crosses his arms and leans against the door to the back room, acting like he doesn’t care. He doesn’t. He just wants his sister to talk to him again, is all, and he low key wants to defeat Karkat at whatever game he’s playing. There’s no way Dave is actually invested in getting a cat, and this is not being interpreted by his brain as a personal injury. As far as Dave knows, Karkat and Nepeta could be long time friends who had had this arranged for a while.

Then again, Karkat doesn’t seem like the ‘friend’ type. They have that in common, maybe.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Karkat says in a savage voice that is trying to be a whisper but failing, “but Nepeta was far ahead of you in the adoption process. She already filled the requirements and everything.”

“ _What_ requirements?” Dave asks, exasperated. He’s still managing to keep his voice much lower than Karkat’s. “You’ve never actually told me what’s expected of me. It’s all just some garbled clusterfuck where I’m stumbling around blindfolded and desperately trying to guess the right thing to say and do. If I wanted that kind of interaction, I’d become an actor on a low budget highschool drama, where my abusive girlfriend could emotionally manipulate me to the delight of a socially unaware audience. It’d be great; I’m sure I’d make a lot of money and have a lot of fans, which is more than I can say about this situation. It’s been two weeks and I don’t even have a furry companion to comfort me as I grapple with despair and try to reconcile with the scars from my past. I’m not asking you for your liver or your virginity or anything, just tell me what I _have_ to do.”

Karkat looks… stunned, and there’s something else that Dave can’t exactly parse. He’s trying to figure it out, because it looks almost _suspicious_ , when Karkat blurts out, “There’s a community service requirement!”

Anything Dave was prepared to say dies on his tongue. His tongue is now a literal and metaphorical graveyard. Bury everything he’s said in his entire life along with any and all future sick flows in the fleshy wasteland that used to be his mouth. Dave Strider may never produce sound again. “Community service.”

“Yyyyes.”

“What. The.”

“It’s to make sure you’re giving back to the community!”

“The cat community?”  
  
Karkat rolls his eyes, dumping the crickets remaining in the funnel back into the bin before he ties up the bag with a rubberband. “We need to make sure you have an appropriate level of investment in contributing and enriching the lives of those around you! A pet is a serious commitment and if you haven’t had an animal companion before, you might not be as selfless as you think you are when push comes to shove. To avoid a situation in which a cat needs to be removed from their adoptive home, we require the would be adoptive parent to provide documentation proving an investment in interests other than ones that directly and primarily benefit them.” Karkat finishes in a rush, and when he’s done, his face is red.

Then he whirls abruptly and stomps back up to the front of the store. Dave gives chase. “And let me guess, this chick just totally went with it and scrubbed a bunch of graffiti off of government buildings or some shit? Just to get a cat?”

“As a matter of fact, Nepeta _already_ had a diverse volunteer history, _and_ pet experience. Her portfolio was much more rounded than yours.”

“Fuckin’ portfolio,” Dave repeats. “Is this me attempting to give a needy animal a loving place to call their own, or trying to get into some pretentious ass Ivy League college?”

The reedy man gives Dave an odd look. Karkat manages to appear the exact combination of hassled and innocent necessary to exonerate himself from all blame; he slips back behind the counter and starts to ring the customer up, looking very much like he has nothing to do with Dave’s deranged rantings.

About-facing, Dave makes his way over to the fish wall, which he proceeds to study with distracted intensity. His head is starting to hurt, and the tropical fish swishing idly through the water serve as visual white noise, a filter for his polluted thoughts. How invested is he in this, really? For what reasons? It has to be that Dave hasn’t had an actual challenge since Bro kicked the bucket. Bro always kept him on his toes, in good ways and bad ways—mostly bad ways, but even he couldn’t eliminate _every_ glimmer of positivity in the situation.

Writing and drawing his own webcomic has been challenging, but not exactly new. His current project is a bit more involved than SBaHJ, but it’s not like he has to fit it in around school or work. Nothing’s been hard for him for a while.

The fact that he doesn’t have any friends in this city really doesn’t help, but Dave ignores that. Rose and Kanaya are all the social interaction he needs. Maybe he’s just feeling a little desperate now that neither of them are talking to him, and John’s too caught between finals and piano lessons to text with any regularity, and Jade’s doing whatever Jade does when she disappears for weeks at a time without warning. God forbid Dave Strider admit to being lonely and bored, but—

“Twenty hours,” a voice says behind him.

Dave spins around, and almost faints. He catches himself against the tanks, ignoring Karkat’s weird look. He didn’t even hear the other dude leave. “What?”

“You need to sign off on twenty hours of community service,” Karkat repeats.

“Are you shitting me?”

He frowns. “Do I look like I’m shitting you?”

It must be either the boredom or the loneliness, because Dave actually spends a good handful of seconds studying Karkat’s face. It looks tired—he’s got hella bags under each eye—and stubborn—the opposite of a surprise—and weirdly sincere. Something inside Dave still insists that this is bullshit, but he squashes it down. He’s okay with losing this one for now. The universe is free to retroactively claim his earlier victory. Right now, all Dave wants to do is get home and sleep for a week. “Is there anywhere specific I have to go? Anything volunteer activities you don’t accept?”

Karkat thinks about it. “No, not really. Just, you know.” He shrugs.

“Gotcha. Alright. I’ll get on that, I guess.”

Nodding, Karkat takes a step back, then looks at the crab tank, then looks back to Dave. “Here’s your phone,” he says at last, holding it out.

“Thanks,” Dave answers neutrally, accepting it, then shoving it in his pocket. “I’m gonna go now.”

“Cool,” Karkat says, and hurries back to the cashwrap like a scared beetle.

“Cool,” Dave echoes, before hurrying his own way past the counter and into the cold outside. He goes to the bus stop, not knowing where else to go, and sits on the bench for about five minutes.

Then he calls for that fucking taxi, because to hell with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [machiavelli thanks you for reading](http://i.imgur.com/DeEeyYa.jpg)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for harassment/racism in this chapter. 
> 
> i got the holiday bluesies but we're back on track and rolling down this hill. reminder that my writing tumblr, while infrequently used, is [hermitcrabwithwings](http://hermitcrabwithwings.tumblr.com/) and y'all can always throw asks at me or check there for teasers/updates about new fics/chapters/etc.

“I'm sorry you think the price for Pedigree is too high, but that's the lowest quality dog food we sell. Walmart probably has it cheaper because they have more lenient sell-by dates. Well, it's great that you've been feeding her that for nine years; congratulations on meeting the lowest quality of care for your companion animal. I'm sure she'd be thrilled to know that her lifetime of friendship and support was being repaid with the least possible effort on your part. Yes, you have a good day, too.”

Karkat slams the phone back into the stand, scowling down at the grody plastic. His quiet moment of hatred is interrupted by a good-natured voice saying, “excuse me?”

For a moment he feels exposed and a tiny bit embarrassed, but his resolve hardens with very little prelude. He's not ashamed about what he has to say: he'd tell it to someone's face if need be. Still, his nastiness is cautiously selective. A good customer gets good service. He doesn't want the entire business to go under, after all. Still, when he offers a sheepish 'how can I help you?’, the customer only smiles.

She's a familiar old woman, though he doesn't recall her name. “Could I get one hundred small feeders, please?”

Peering through the bins at the tanks, Karkat responds, “I don't think I have that much in there. I could probably do sixty. Is that okay?”

“Oh, yes. I'll just come back. When's your shipment due?”

“Wednesdays are our live animal delivery,” he says, making his way over to the feeder tanks.

She casts her eyes down at her phone. “That's only two days from now. I'll come then from now on, so I can get enough.” Karkat is quick about netting all the available fish, minus a few that escape by hiding in the corners. “You can stop at fifty. I wouldn't want to leave you with nothing,” she says, generously.

Karkat pauses, then resumes counting. “Thanks,” he finally remembers to say, once they've all been filed into the specimen cup. He bags them quickly, then meets the lady where she’s already waiting by the counter. “That’ll be seven dollars and ninety-five cents,” Karkat says before he’s even gotten to the register. He’s got the prices of most common quantities memorized, like ten and twelve, fifteen, twenty- and thirty-five, up to one hundred and thirty-three, because there’s a customer who comes in and orders twenty dollars’ worth of smalls, which usually means Karkat has to dip into the backstock tank early, or sell out both minnows _and_ goldfish, depending on what day the guy decides to show up. The lady reaches into her purse, and Karkat takes the time to actually key the order into the register. “What’re you feeding?” he asks as a reflex, not remembering whether she’s told him before or not.

“Convicts, mostly,” she says, pulling out a ten dollar bill.

Pausing as he accepts it, Karkat muses. “That’s a lot of fish for a smaller cichlid. They get vegetables too, right?”

Unsolicited advice on animal husbandry is not always appreciated—not that that stops Karkat from offering it—but the lady’s smile grows brighter. “I breed Convicts as a hobby, actually; feeders are only half of their diet, but I still need quite a few.  One hundred goldfish lasts my adults about two weeks, once you include my Flowerhorn and Jack Dempsey. Those I don’t breed; they’re just for fun.”

“Oh,” Karkat says, not unimpressed. “Will fifty be enough for your fish? I could get the rest, or, uh, there’s a Petco down the street.”

She lets out a small, exaggerated shriek of what Karkat can only assume is horror, and then giggles. “You would never catch me buying fish from one of those places.” She says _those_ like it’s a bad word, her laugh-lined mouth tilted conspiratorially. “I actually live just past the intersection by that strip mall,” she explains, accepting when Karkat mutely hands her the change, “but I drive all the way out here to get my feeders. You don’t have to worry about getting any more; my babies aren’t that greedy. I’ll be back on Wednesday.”

“Thank you for your business,” he replies, not sure what else to say.

Tucking the bag of fish against her chest, the woman winks with one starry green eye. “Thank _you_ for keeping the healthiest and best cared for feeder fish out of any pet store in the county. I swear, your feeder tanks are cleaner than my breeders.” Karkat tosses a look back over at the fish wall, as if he doesn’t know that he scrubs the walls of each tank every other morning, in addition to weekly spot-cleaning with a toothbrush in corners and over ornaments. By the time he’s turned back the bell has already chimed and there’s nothing to see but a tan coat disappearing behind the sign-covered door.

Reflecting on the encounter puts him a strangely charitable mood through the remainder of the morning, but all good things must pass and happiness is transient.

In other words, Dave Strider shows up.

“What the actual, fire-shitting fuck do you think you’re doing.” The winter air stings Karkat’s face; upon seeing the activity going on outside the storefront he ran outside without thinking to grab a scarf or anything.

“Does being outside make swearing any less unprofessional, or have you just stopped caring?” Dave doesn’t smile—doesn’t make any expression, actually—and doesn’t even hesitate in his movements, but he exudes such a smug sense of accomplishment that Karkat can pick up on it easily, even if his voice is completely neutral. 

“I’m calling the cops,” says Karkat.

Dave sets the window scraper back in the bucket by his heels then straightens his spine, crossing his arms over his chest. “And tell them what,” he wonders. “There’s a guy washing windows outside my place of employment, officer.”

“You’re trespassing,” Karkat snarls.

“I have permission from the landlord, actually, so I’m pretty sure the only thing I’m doing is those community service hours you told me to work on.”

Words die on Karkat’s tongue. His mouth is a desert, and his vocal cords just migrated to lusher plains. Language is a long-lost luxury that the flat-bellied vermin stubbornly occupying his barren throat know nothing of. His teeth grind together like they’re tearing through a cactus’ thick, spined flesh. Although he doesn’t take his eyes off Dave, he’s sure his hands have bled white and red from how hard he’s clenching them, nails digging into their respective palms. Dave parries every second of Karkat’s infuriated stare, not moving an inch until, using the last of the moisture hidden under his tongue, Karkat rasps out, “ _What_.”

“Do you need to see my papers or.”

Karkat doesn’t need to see any _goddamn_ papers. He turns on his heel and wishes more than anything else for the ability to slam the door behind him.

This is not what he meant to happen. Yes, he made up the community service requirement, in part to stall, in part to save his ass. Karkat doesn’t owe Dave anything, and he’s not ashamed of his decisions, but he does feel pretty bad about being caught in the lie like that. Really, he was hoping Dave would just decide it was too much work and give up, but Karkat’s starting to believe that he doesn’t know entirely what he’s up against.

He spends the next twenty minutes brainstorming, scribbling new excuses and lies on a page in his notebook, which he then puts through the shredder. Watching the lined paper disintegrate into strips, Karkat tries to gain some perspective on the situation. It’s not the end of the world. The windows needed to be washed anyway, which is probably how Dave got permission from the landlord to do it. Who is the landlord of this place, even? Karkat has no idea. Mr. Kulkarni deals with that kind of stuff.

Really, he’s reacting more severely than he needs to. After all, Dave is _outside_ , and he is inside, and he has work to be doing, and if Dave gets ripped out of his time that’s not Karkat’s problem. His fault, yes, but his problem? No. Dave should have considered this before walking into Karkat’s store while being utterly intolerable, as if Karkat would just let that go or whatever. Not a chance, Strider. Not a chance.

Taking a deep breath, Karkat returns to the sales floor and steels himself. He just won’t look at the windows. He’ll shove himself in the furthest corner of cashwrap with the most obscured view, and watch his latest movie, and take notes, and not look outside at all.

Except, once he gets to the front, the first thing he does is glance through the heavy signage behind the hermit crab tank. The window certainly doesn’t look any cleaner, although that could be his side. Karkat doesn’t get paid to take care of things that aren’t animals, so he estimates none of that has been tended to since he moved the 125 gallon in front of it all. He’d tell Dave to wash that, too, but Karkat doesn’t think he can stand being around him long enough for the job to get done.

In fact, Karkat can barely walk to the counter door without craning his neck to get a glimpse of the asshole beyond the clutter, already getting angry just thinking about him being out there, whether visible or not.

He makes it another twenty minutes, approximately, before hurling his notebook across the cashwrap and storming back outside. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Dave Strider,” he answers automatically, wiping a rag over the… window-scraper thing.

His sass does nothing but fuel Karkat’s incoherent rage. “Why are you doing this? You could have gone _anywhere_.”

“Maybe I missed you,” Dave says, continuing with his methodical strokes over the filthy storefront. “Thought this’d be a good way for us to hang out.”

“I don’t want to fucking hang out with you.”

Dave pauses his scraping to clutch a hand to his chest. “Aw, Kat. I’m crushed.”

Karkat narrows his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

There are a few seconds of silence. Dave’s mouth might twitch a little. Karkat is filled with intense dread which is fully validated when Dave opens his stupid mouth. “Should I make a joke about calling you late to dinner and then explain it, or—”

“ _I hope a jet crashes into this building and takes us both straight to fucking hell_.” Solidifying Karkat’s place as an embarrassing black smudge on his family tree, he retreats a second time, allowing Dave to see his unprotected back as he fails at yet another offense.

Even though he just cleaned the reptile enclosures Thursday, Karkat retreats to the back of the store where he can stop himself from trying to glare out the window at Dave. The cat room would be safest, but he scrubbed down the whole adoption center this very morning before the store opened, so that would be redundant. Karkat aggressively scrubs down every available surface, even ones that don’t look like they need to be cleaned. It’s still fairly early for Saturday, and so customers are sparse. They’ll pick up in a couple of hours, but in the meanwhile he’s wrangling sticky tree frogs into totes so he can hand feed them crickets, because their enclosure isn’t even pretending to be dirty.

Someone enters the store, just as Karkat is scowling at an uncooperative cricket that won’t hold still and allow itself to be tweezed into a frog’s hungry mouth. He pauses to listen, hears multiple sets of footsteps, and sighs as he sets the tongs down. As he rounds the corner, he’s already opening his mouth— _hi there, welcome to Tank Time_ —but he stops. Rewinds, until he’s back around the corner. Tries to be quiet as he bolts into the back room to see if Mr. Kulkarni is here or not.

The back office is dark and empty. Karkat represses the panic rising like fire in his chest.

The unfortunate nature of his living situation is compounded only by the people his roommate considers friends. Would that Karkat had been more sensitive to the absolutely deplorable lack of quality in any of these persons before he decided to rail against one of them for the improper use of a choke chain on his badly trained pitbull. Previous to the altercation he’d been unpleasant to them at best, but issuing a personal challenge managed to poke at all the wrong kinds of dominance displays in this particular troglodyte.

Being fed a constant stream of opulence from his family’s many silver spoons apparently doesn’t take up enough of his time, and so he’s made it a point ever since to pop into Karkat’s workplace whenever’s convenient, solely for the purpose of harassing him. (How he found out where Karkat works is still an unsolved mystery, though Karkat is fairly certain his roommate told him.) Mr. Kulkarni shoos them away when he’s around, but Karkat is actually pretty scared of being alone with them.

His spine is cold as he stalks over to the reptile racks, grabbing a frog in each hand and quickly returning them all to their enclosure, which he quickly closes and locks. The footsteps are approaching, loud voices raised and mixed with laughter. “Yo, anyone home? Helloooo.”

Karkat puts on a stubborn face and grabs a bottle of windex. He can’t fight worth a damn, but with all the biking he does he’s very fast, so he could probably blind them and get a head start running away. The cat room has a lock on the door. He could totally call 911 in there.

They reach the fish wall before Karkat can, blocking his passage to the paper towel holder (and the entrance to the cat room). He swallows, but refuses to show any fear. “Welcome to Tank Time,” he rumbles, trying not to look like he’s brandishing the windex bottle.

“Hey dude,” says one guy Karkat doesn’t recognize. He’s the shortest of the group, but still taller than Karkat. “We almost thought the place was empty.”

The irresponsible dog owner (whose name is probably something like Brandon, although Karkat has never committed it to memory) snickers. “That’s bad customer service, man. I’m gonna give you bad reviews on yelp.”

Karkat sneers. “Be my guest.” Half their customer reviews _already_ complain about the service, which Karkat doesn’t care about because Mr. Kulkarni doesn’t seem to know the page exists. (The rest of the reviews praise the quality of the animals and products, giving the business a respectable 3.5 average rating, which Karkat is content with.) He cares even less knowing that, if he was so inclined, he could probably ask Sollux to find a way to strip the bad reviews from the page.

“I wanna talk to your manager,” Brandon says, taking a step closer. He knows full well Mr. Kulkarni isn’t here, because Karkat would have gotten him the moment he saw them if he was. Likely, he just wants Karkat to admit that he’s alone.

“He’s busy,” Karkat says instead. “Though if you managed to forget the location of the bad quality dog food you always buy since the last time you were here, it’s aisle three. You’re welcome.”

With that, Karkat lifts the arm holding the windex bottle and makes a barrier between him and their bodies as he slides past. Brandon lets it actually _make contact_ before he steps out of Karkat’s way, which sends revulsion through his skin, pooling thickly in his stomach. Defiantly, Karkat turns his back to them, and starts spraying down the tankfronts, wadding paper towel in his fist to wipe it off. He pretends not to have noticed how solid Brandon’s chest was, tight with muscle that Karkat doesn’t have. He keeps his mind distracted with his task so he doesn’t end up wondering if Brandon could pop his skull against the tankfronts like a ripened grape.

He’s imagining the hot breath on the back of his neck. He knows this because none of them are short enough to get close enough without stooping, and he’s also wearing a turtleneck. Just ignore them and they’ll go away. Ha-ha.

“You’d better be careful with that shit you’re spewing,” says the third guy, whom Karkat recognizes as his roommate’s fraternity brother. His generic white-boy name is one Karkat has _also_ refused to memorize.

“Yeah,” adds Brandon. “Besides, you’ll be _delighted_ to hear that I’m not feeding Rex that shit anymore.” Rex. Such a typical hypermasc name for a bully dog. “I’m switching him to raw meat, starting today.”

“Vital Essentials is stored in the fridge on the right,” Karkat says, not turning around.

“Does it come in Mexican flavour?”

“Yeah, got some El Paso in that fridge?”

Though he grits his teeth, Karkat keeps moving along the line of tanks, keeping his voice as normal as possible. “Most of the spices in Latin American cuisine are dangerous to dogs, sorry.”

A body hits the space in front of him, cutting off his progress. “We’ll have to find an alternative. Rex’s got a refined palate.”

“Give him something you brought over the border illegally,” Brandon jeers. “My family maid says that stuff tastes best.”

Karkat fists a hand at his side, pulling the windex up near his chin. He doesn’t want to look small and vulnerable, but he desperately does not want to be touched by any of these assholes. “If you like salmonella, sure. It’s not like your personality would be all that different while suffering from Mad Cow disease. Would your girlfriend even notice a change?”

They laugh, infuriatingly. “Ooooh,” they crow. “He got you good.”

“I’ll get his foreign ass good, too,” Brandon says. “Hey, puta, if I called the cops right now, would they bust you for having a fake ID?”

“I bet he gets paid under the table.”

“Twenty dollars a day to feed your family back in Mexico, am I right, puta?”

He doesn’t bother correcting them, even though he has trouble fathoming how they’re interpreting his features as Mexican. They probably don’t even know that India is an Asian country, so he skips that fight entirely. “Mix it up, asshole. Call me a pendejo while you’re at it. God, at least google Spanish insults before embarrassing yourself like this.”

A hand grabs his shoulder and spins him around. There are bodies, all boxing him in, and _maybe_ he could bash in one of their eyes with the plastic spray handle, but Karkat doubts he could disable all of them in time to make a safe getaway. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“You think you’re tough shit, don’t you, estupido?”

“That’s better,” Karkat wheezes. He can barely breathe from how tight his lungs are.

“How about this: Yo el beato tu ass, bitch.”

It’s the moment before he dies, and the only thought Karkat can wrap his head around is horrified awe at such profound bastardization of a romantic language. He tries to remember the actual verb for ‘beat,’ but highschool Spanish class was a long time ago, and there’s an angry white boy about to fuck his shit up.

“Hombreeeee. Didn’t expect to see you here.” Karkat blinks in confusion at the new voice—was there someone else who came in with them who he didn’t notice? He tries to look, but Brandon’s body blocks his view. “I didn’t know you knew Spanish, buddy. Cuanto tiempo sin verte.” The wall of douche parts, and Karkat blinks to see…

Dave. Holding his window scraper, one hand in his pocket, smirking amiably. He nudges the douche on Karkat’s right with the scraper, not actually making any contact with him. “Eyy, volverme a casa preguntando: ‘¿quién coño es mas chulo?’”

The guy looks gobsmacked. “I think you got the wrong guy, man.”

“¡No mires!” Dave says. “O lárgate de aquí si es necesario. No vuelvas a apostar ni un puto duro por mi, mierda. Las lagrimas no tienen horario, ¿a que venís putas? ¿A que venís?”

“Dude,” Brandon says, looking between Dave and his friend, who he’s doing nothing to help.

“You really got the wrong guy.”

Dave’s expression doesn’t quite change. “What? No way. Kyle, right? From the bar, like, right off the interstate. You’re not Kyle?”

“No man, I’m not, my name’s Chris, I don’t even know any Kyles.” Ah, Chris. That was his name.

“That’s a shame, man, you look just like him. You could be twins. You sure? Seriously, mi cerebro esta preparado soy ágil como una pantera, duermo con un ojo abierto: tengo enemigos ahí fuera.”

Chris shoves Dave’s window scraper out of the way so he can step around him, sharing Brandon’s bulk like they’re about to Power Ranger morph. “I’m sure, dude, and I don’t speak Spanish, alright?”

“Coulda sworn I heard one of y’all dropping some sweet Español when I walked in,” Dave says, coolly surveying all three of them. 

“It was a joke,” Brandon says.

“Damn,” Dave laments, seeming actually disappointed, but in a completely insincere way. He switches the scraper in his hands, shrugging widely enough that the coalescing white boys have to shrink back to avoid being hit by it. “Here I was hoping I’d found mi familia. Hey, if you ever want to kick it, though, my schedule’s totally free. I could get you into some sick places.” He doesn’t elaborate on what kind of places.

Karkat doesn’t believe what he sees when the three start moving toward the door. Dave turns measuredly, watching them every step of the way, posture neutral and disarming. Welcoming, even. “It’s fine, dude. It’s fine,” one voice volunteers, while the other says, “Hope you find Kyle, man, good luck.”

The door chimes. The footsteps are gone.

The store descends into silence.

Dave’s face is no longer pleasant, or even neutral. It’s blank. His shoulders are tense, which Karkat only notices because he’s looking at him from the back, and can see how they hunch up toward his ears.

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” Karkat says, at a loss of anything else to say. He’s certainly not going to thank him.

Turning back, Dave scrunches his nose a bit, but is otherwise expressionless. “I don’t,” he says.

Karkat blinks. “What.”

“Those were rap lyrics,” he says, fiddling with the window scraper. The edge of his sleeve is damp where it dripped down his hand. “I grew up in Houston, so I listened to a lot of Spanish music.”

For a second, Karkat thinks he’s going to laugh, but he… doesn’t. He furrows his brow at Dave, wondering, “Do you usually freak out racist white boys by pretending to be Latinx and calling them the wrong name?”

“I am Latinx, actually,” Dave says. “And I figured out a while ago that it’s easier to weird people out until they go away than it is to fight them.” He notices Karkat blatantly studying him, and then volunteers, “My mom was Cuban. I’m pretty sure my dad made up Strider to sound cooler than he actually was.”

“Gotcha,” Karkat says.

He doesn’t say anything else, but Dave seems to coil defensively, like he’s expecting something more. Karkat doesn’t blame him. He’s not enough of an asshole to make a big deal out of Dave’s appearance, but in the context of knowing how to escape from bullies… well, Karkat doesn’t doubt that an albino kid would have to get good at fending off dickweasels. “What,” Dave deadpans, voice oddly aggressive, “are you fixin’ to say how you didn’t know Black people could be Latinx?”

Frowning, Karkat says, “No, I’m not a fucking braindead fetal goat with no hope of a normal life. I have basic knowledge of how the world fucking works. I was wondering how you managed to grow up with a Cuban parent in a predominantly Latinx city and still come out only having memorized Spanish rap lyrics.”

“Define ‘growing up,’” Dave says, but before Karkat can respond, continues, “And I hope that after sayin’ that shit, you’re on your way to tell me that you’re completely fluent in.” He pauses, lips twitching. “In. Uh.”

Karkat arches his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, in what? I must have misheard you, because I swear you just accused me of not knowing anything about your ethnic background while apparently not being able to summon any information about mine.”

Silence stretches into an awkward gaping hole between them, until Dave mutters, “We sound like a coupla white kids arguing about the different distinctions of United Kingdom terminology.”

“You said it, not me,” Karkat says, as close to agreeing with him as he’s going to get. He crumples the paper towel in the palm holding the windex bottle, runs his sweaty fingers through his hair and sighs heavily, giving a baleful look to the tankfronts which he suddenly has no desire to finish cleaning. “You’re right, though,” Karkat eventually admits. “I don’t speak Hindi.”

Dave snorts. “Yeah. Take that, or something.”

“Oh yes,” he counters dully, “I feel very intellectually dominated right now.”

“Not like it’s hard,” Dave says, and waits just long enough for Karkat to get offended and open his mouth in preparation for imminent destruction, before cutting in like a precision blade and adding, “After listening to those chucklefucks I’m surprised your id hasn’t taken over your higher functions.”

“This Saturday featuring the new Hollywood blockbuster: Death of a Superego, starring Karkat Vantas.”

If the joke was too film nerdy, Dave doesn’t mention it. “It’ll make millions,” he says instead.

They stand there after that, not speaking, until Karkat finally picks his feet up and drags himself back to the sink so he can put the windex away and discard the damp paper towel. Dave stays there, staring emptily at the fish, scraper hanging limply from his hand. “So, uh,” Karkat hazards, “How’d the windows go?”

A crease forms on Dave’s brow, but only for a second. “There was like, ten years worth of build-up on those windows. It doesn’t look like I did jack shit. Reminded me of trying to cleanse my sins in Catholic school.”

Huffing out something that’s almost a laugh, Karkat asks, “You went to Catholic school?”

“Nope,” says Dave, finally moving: he stretches his arms up above his head, and appears to wince. “I can’t actually get over how easy those dudes were to freak out,” he says, dropping his arms with a deep sigh.

“They’re not exactly complex creatures.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t even call me an albino freak or anything,” Dave says, proceeding onward to rolling his neck. “They were almost goddamn cordial.”

Karkat shrugs. “Losers like that are walking cases of erectile dysfunction. They act like they can tear shit up but when it comes down to it, they can’t even put it in.”

Dave laughs. Not a snort, or a breathy puff of amusement, but an actual chuckle, low in his throat. Just two notes, framed by the upturned corners of his full lips. It’s gone before Karkat can make a big deal of it, but the sound lingers in his memory. “I’m not complaining. If the great dicks of vengeance decided to have it out for me, I’d probably be too fucked up to fight back. Sorry, dudes, my punch quota is filled for the week; the city bus got on my shit first.”

The comment has Karkat’s head turning, mouth halfway open in muted shock. “You got hit by a _bus?_ ”

Suddenly looking bashful, Dave shrugs one shoulder. The corner of his lip tightens. “Does it count if I was in the bus when it hit me?” Suddenly the stretching and the grimacing makes a lot more sense, now that he can’t attribute it to soreness from scrubbing windows for a paltry forty minutes. Karkat wonders if the thought of dark bruises on paper white skin bothers him more now that Dave risked worsening them to save his ungrateful ass. He didn’t even fucking _thank_ him, holy fuck, Karkat’s entire life and disposition needs to be put in a blender and pulverized, he’s such a _goddamn tit_.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here harassing me instead of staying at home and like, _resting_.” Helping the community with free labor becomes harassment, and improving Karkat’s place of employment while ill becomes a personal slight against him, and Karkat’s mouth somehow thinks this is a suitable replacement for actually expressing gratitude. If some god could just go ahead and strike him down now, that’d be great.

“Resting alone in my apartment while you’re lustfully searching for someone, possibly anyone else to throw cats at before you stoop low enough to make something easy and painless for once?”

Karkat doesn’t exactly reel, but he does take a step back, offended. “I don’t know how you think that constantly complaining about my efforts to keep these animals _safe_ is going to in any way gain my trust.”

“I never did anything to compromise your trust in the first place,” Dave stresses, almost— _almost_ —emoting with the words.

“That’s not how it works! Trust is earned. You think you’re the first stranger to waltz in pretending to be the next virgin birth attempting to get an animal from me?”

“No, of course not. This is a _pet store_.”

“Wrong,” Karkat snaps. “This is a tank store. Animal sales make up less than twenty percent of our revenue. I don’t have to sell anyone jack shit, especially if I don’t think they’re capable of providing a suitable home.”

The minute shift of Dave’s muscles tells Karkat that he’s rolling his eyes. “And you know what? I fuckin’ _get that_. Just do me a favour and stop acting like I’m some blood-drinking succubus here to steal and torture your beloved fuzzy inventory. Like god damn, you’re so paranoid I’m starting to get suspicious of _myself_ just from the contact high of being around you.”

“You would be the worst succubus ever.” It comes out before Karkat can stop it, and he feels immediately and intensely awkward as soon as the words process in his mind.

Dave… looks amused, though. His lips are pressed into a tight line, tilting down like he’s trying hard not to smile. “Can’t argue with that, bro.” Then he turns around and walks into the adoption center, apparently done with the conversation. He offers no prelude as he disappears behind the flimsy door.

Several minutes pass before Karkat follows him. He silently enters the room amidst the usual chorus of mews as the cats recognize him and immediately beg for food and pets. Distracted, he doesn’t immediately go to console them, hands pressing into two different cages to greet furry, purring bodies. Instead, he crosses his arms tight over his chest and stares at Dave, who’s slumped himself against the wall in front of Dumpling’s kennel, and is frowning intensely as she sits just far enough out of reach that he can barely glance her forehead with his fingertips. She looks coolly on, ambivalent to his struggle.

This absolutely cannot be guilt that Karkat is feeling. He refuses.

“Thanks for helping me not get my ass beat,” Karkat says eventually, because reluctantly faking manners is easier than sacrificing his stubborn pride.

Dave glances at him, then looks back at Dumpling without so much as a twitch. “Don’t mention it. The atrocity they committed against the Spanish language was incentive enough.”

Karkat’s face scrunches. “Right.” Very faintly in the background, he hears the sound of the door chime. “I… have to go get that.”

“Yeah, man,” Dave nods. “Do your job.” He doesn’t seem interested in moving. Karkat opens his mouth to say something, but turns around instead, walking away mutely.

The customer doesn’t greet him as they walk distractedly into the cat section, staring at their phone. Karkat doesn’t bother to offer them any help. He goes to sit down behind the counter, feeling numb. He needs processing time. He needs a hot bath. He needs… he needs…

When the adoption center door opens, Karkat doesn’t know how much time has passed. He vaguely remembers mechanically checking the customer out, but he doesn’t remember what they bought. His eyes follow Dave as he shuffles around the cashwrap and out the front, not offering so much as a ‘later.’ Karkat is halfway to feeling terrible when Dave stops just before stepping entirely out and letting the door fall behind him.

“They stole my fucking bucket,” Dave says flatly.

Karkat slaps both hands over his face, because some exhausted, worn down part of him wants to laugh and he absolutely will not indulge it, no matter how tempting it is. “Fucking twats,” he manages to squeak out past his fingers.

“At least I don’t have to take it on the bus now.”

“That’s like being glad when the bank forecloses your house because at least now you can’t accidentally burn it down.”

“That analogy only works if I have to carry my house on the bus.”

“I’ve seen stranger things.”

Dave stares for a second longer, and then says, “I’m really gonna go now. I got more windows to wash tomorrow. I signed on to do the entire strip.”

Part of Karkat tells him to get shitty about the information that Dave will, in fact, be back, but he simply doesn’t have the energy. “Don’t die on your way home,” he says, unable to summon anything else.

“I’ll try,” Dave says.

“Just think,” says Karkat, leaning forward on his elbows over the counter. “If you die today, you won’t be able to show me up by performing hours of menial labour just to trick me into entrusting you with a dependent.”

“God forbid.”

“Yeah. Good luck, by the way.”

Brandishing the window scraper in an awkward half-wave, Dave finally melts through the doorway. Karkat pretends that he doesn’t watch his retreating form through the (still filthy) window until he’s out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (for those curious, 'latinx' is the gender neutral alternative to latino/latin@.)
> 
> thank y'all for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today's game: find the reference! whoever catches it first wins a free drabble.

Using someone else’s sound system to blare Nicki Minaj through the whole of the apartment building is far from the typical model of politeness, but Dave’s neighbor is out of town for the weekend and he’s watching her dog for free. A boy has to feed his soul somehow, and so long as he skips over all the tracks that feature Lil Wayne, his soul comes out pretty goddamn nourished.

It’s not exactly how he expected his Friday to go, but Dave likes to roll with the punches. He was about to head out for his daily bout of harassing Karkat, which has become something of a ritual for him in the past week, when the little sixty-year-old black woman knocked on his door. He’s picked up dog food for her before—usually when he went to the grocery, though earlier in the week he offered to get some from the actual pet store, even though it meant he’d had to deal with Karkat’s bitching about the brand. Dave has never owned a pet in his life, but somehow Ms. Watson decided (unlike Karkat) that being able to buy dog food made him a capable petsitter, and thus.

It’s a pretty cute dog, as far as dogs go. Her name is Kimchi. Ms. Watson said something about an old Korean girlfriend but Dave isn’t sure if she meant it in the actual gay way or the old person gal pal kinda way. He didn’t ask.

Now he’s trying to figure out how much distance walking a dog is meant to entail, since Ms. Watson said “walk her twice daily” but didn’t extrapolate any further. He googles whether or not he’s allowed to take a dog on the bus, because he really has to get his ass eastways before his ruse goes sour. It’s amazing he’s been able to keep it going this long, even.

When Dave awkwardly leads Kimchi down to the bus stop, he’s thankful to not have the burden of a set of window washing tools to bog him down. He returned the scraper to the store for his money back last Sunday.

Not that Karkat knows that.

Dave resists the urge to ask the bus driver if he has to pay twice the fare if he has a dog, and shoves Kimchi under his arm while he’s boarding, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. No one says a word, so he sits down with the dog on his lap and reaches for his phone.

“You’re late today,” Karkat notes when he walks through the door, barely affording him half a glance. “I was almost living in hope of sparing myself the daily aneurysm.”

“Yeah, the windows down on the dollar store were encrusted in the physical essence of poverty, which as it turns out is pretty hard to get rid of,” he lies smoothly, because Karkat isn’t the only one who can pull some shit and get away with it. He doubts the kid will actually hunt down the building landlord to make sure the signature Dave forged on his photoshopped community service log is legit. “Also, I had some pretty distracting company.”

Karkat does a double take, then issues a third, sweeping glance around Dave’s general vicinity. Dave sees the exact moment Karkat spots the dog.

He doesn’t quite squeal ‘oh my god,’ but his mouth drops open and his eyes go wide. With great amusement, Dave watches him try not to trip over literally everything as he bursts out from behind the counter, only slowing his purposeful stride when he approaches the fat amalgamation of fluff at Dave’s side, dropping down to one knee and extending the back of his hand. “Hey there,” he says quietly, like it’s a private conversation between just him and the dog.

“Her name is Kimchi,” Dave volunteers helpfully, the leash slack in his hand.

“Oh my god,” Karkat says, and that’s what finally gets Dave, because of course that’d be the kind of shitty pet name Karkat would eat right up. “Hey, pretty girl,” he croons, once Kimchi has finished sniffing his hand and has invited it to start scratching her ears.

It’s pretty much the nicest Karkat’s ever sounded in the entire time Dave’s known him, which at this point is completely unsurprising. Dave has long since figured out that Karkat likes animals more than he’ll ever like people.

“What innocent person did you kill to get custody of this flawless animal?” Karkat wonders. Although he doesn’t look up from the dog, Dave suspects he’s talking to him now. “Have the police at least been informed?”

“Yeah,” he responds, “they’ve set up cameras in my apartment and everything. No, she’s my neighbor’s.”

“You stole a dog from your neighbor?”

Dave bobs his head enthusiastically, gesturing with his empty hand. “I just couldn’t control the urge anymore. I needed something fluffy in my life. I’m going through actual withdrawal, and turning to a life of crime because of it.”

“I’m calling CPS,” says Karkat decisively. He acts like he’s going to stand up, but Kimchi immediately snuffles and paws at his pant leg. He’s powerless to resist her doggy witchcraft, and so stays rooted to the floor. “What kind of dog is she?”

“Porgi,” Dave says without missing a beat.

“Fuck you,” Karkat says just as quickly. “Fake fusion breed names are the result of a sycophantic society that doesn’t know how to value something without ascribing it a shitty title that’s meant to indicate worth but is ultimately impossible to quantify.”

Kimchi rolls onto her back approvingly. Karkat scratches her belly with vicious self satisfaction. Dave rolls his eyes. “Whatever, porgi is a fucking ingenious portmanteau and if you’re too consumed with hate to understand that, you’ll have to deal with calling her a boring old corgi-poodle mix.”

“She is _not_ boring,” Karkat scolds, giving Dave a venomous look that he’s probably not entirely faking. “She is a noble, sophisticated individual.”

“She has short, dumb legs.”

Karkat sighs, put-upon, and rocks back to sit on his heels. “Thank you for that great wisdom, Dave.”

Dave salutes. “No prob. How’s your day going?”

“Only about half an hour left,” Karkat says, “Which is as good as I could hope for.”

“Is it really that late?” Dave wonders distantly, looking at his bare wrist like he expects a watch to be there, even though he’s never worn a wristwatch in his life.

“If it wasn’t,” Karkat says, pushing himself to his feet, “I wouldn’t have commented about it being late when you walked in.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” The door opens into his back, and Dave ushers a scrambling Kimchi quickly aside, placating the half-hearted apologies from the woman who just walked in. Karkat issues his rote greeting, not bothering to unslump enough to reveal his worn, barely readable nametag from under the wrinkles of the grey sweater Dave has confirmed he wears every single day.

There’s a little rush in the last half hour of business hours. He barely gets to talk to Karkat, and instead walks Kimchi around the store idly. It’s too cold to spend any prolonged time outside, even though there’s not much snow, so Dave only pops out for a second to see if Kimchi has to relieve herself.

When he walks back inside, Karkat is making good on his promise of a daily aneurysm, although Dave is shockingly not the instigator.

“Why not?” he’s asking a bewildered customer. “Why would I not give you a bag to hold one five ounce item? What reason could you _possibly_ have to hold that thing in your hand instead of carrying it in a harmless shroud of plastic for the forty-five seconds it takes to cross the parking lot and locate your car?”

Oh boy.

“I will _tell you_ why not,” Karkat snarls. “The impacted intestines of a magnificent sperm whale that just washed up on one of California’s shores is why. Oh, what? You didn’t think that your slovenly consumerism might have a meaningful impact on life that isn’t directly in front of your face? Of course! How typical. You know what? Here’s your bag.” Karkat rips a bag off the pack and snatches up the item before the customer can protest, violently shoving it inside. “After you get to your car, please do me a favour and drive directly to the nearest beach and stick it directly into a whale’s blowhole, because _that’s where it’s going to end up anyway._ Have a nice night.”

The guy staggers off in a daze, holding his hard-won plastic bag like it’s currently on fire. Karkat huffs through his nostrils like a self satisfied dragon, his thick brows scrunched low over his eyes as he watches the guy go. “So, um,” Dave says. “You’re a little tetchy today, I’ve noticed.”

Karkat redirects his glare to Dave. “When am I not?”

“Good point, but that’s the third customer you’ve yelled at in like, twenty minutes, dude.”

“They all suck tonight,” Karkat says curtly, winding around from behind the counter and stalking over to the front door, which he promptly locks.

Dave can’t help but notice that he’s still inside. “Uh, dude?” he wonders, looking between the door and the dog at his feet, panting cheerfully and completely unbothered by Karkat’s tirade. “I think you forgot something.”

“Did I?” Karkat asks, and then flicks off the open sign, stalking down one of the aisles without saying another word.

“I think we just got invited to Karkat’s sleepover,” says Dave to the dog, who twitches her ears and shuffles up to park her tiny front legs on his shins. He obliges her with scratches, which are apparently inferior to Karkat’s because after a second of tolerating it, she drops down and attempts to waddle after Karkat, hauling at the leash. Dave releases it, figuring that not much bad can happen in a locked pet-safe building.

It’s weird how this trashy pet store has become so familiar to him. Almost disconcerting how he’s totally chill here, not twitching for the opportunity to escape and go home and be alone in his room. He ignores how it makes sense—that impulse is one reason of many why he doesn’t have any friends here, and somehow, at some point, Karkat became a palatable alternative to being alone. The thought makes him wildly uncomfortable.

He’s never been in the back room before, but the door is left hanging open, temptingly, and Dave hears noise beyond it so he walks on through, boldly ignoring the ‘employees only’ sign. It doesn’t take long to find Karkat sitting on the floor, boredly feeding Kimchi strips off what looks like a drumstick. On a box beside him is a tupperware container filled with something yellow that looks like vegetables, and a pile of discarded breading. Dave is left as amused as he is confused. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he observes the scene. “Not hungry?”

“Not for this,” Karkat says, peeling off another chunk of chicken.

Dave cocks an eyebrow over the rim of his shades, which is a worthless gesture because Karkat isn’t looking at him. “Why’d you bring it?” A second later he wonders if Karkat might have an eating disorder, and almost feels bad about prodding him about food, but Karkat seems dispassionate when he answers.

“I didn’t.” Contemplating the response, Dave is about to question it, when Karkat continues. “More accurately, I didn’t realize that some ass eating cockmonkey thought it would be funny to put meat in the food I packed for work today before locking myself in my room to escape the carnival of buffoonery that my jackwagon roommate was preparing.”

Blinking, Dave sucks on his teeth. That’s actually, uh. Surprisingly dickish. “Your roomie lets his friends get away with that shit?”

Karkat snorts bitterly. “He encourages it, probably. How else would they know I don’t eat meat?”

“I dunno, man,” Dave says, because he can’t help himself. “You’re not exactly subtle about your feelings.” Shooting him a dark look under his eyelashes, Karkat goes back to picking the last bits of meat off the chicken bone. “So, assuming you’re a vegetarian, you seem pretty chill touching that.”

Karkat rolls his eyes and throws the bare bone into the tupperware. He pats Kimchi, then stands up, carrying it over to the wastebin at Dave’s side. “I touch raw meat all the time when feeding animals,” he says disdainfully. “Cooked chicken isn’t going to give me the fucking vapors. I’m just not going to eat it.” He upturns the tupperware, emptying its entire contents into the trash. “Anyway, if you’re going to let her run around unattended, take off her leash. She could get caught on something.”

He wants to argue just to argue but obeys instead, winding the leash around his hand as Kimchi shakes her head and shoulders, reveling in her new freedom. “Sounds like your roommate fucking sucks,” Dave says, thinking about it. If he’d ever had a vegetarian phase, sneaking meat into his food would probably be something Bro would do. He could totally see that asshole buying cow penis from a butcher and putting a chunk of it into a kale smoothie or whatever else it is that vegetarians drink, and giving it to him like an evil present.

Not that Dave would have trusted it, but Bro probably would have done it anyway, just to see him uncomfortable.

“Fucking understatement of the year,” Karkat snarls from the sink, where he’s washing his hands. “I’ve lived in hovels preferable to the space I share with this dickweal.”

“Why do you live with such a jerk anyway?”

Karkat shrugs, looks like he’s about to get angry, then deflates as he turns off the water. “The space was nice when I signed the lease. The place I’d lived before didn’t even have bathrooms in the apartment, there was just a communal one down the hall, and my friend linked me to this ad, and there was this picture of a tiny half bathroom attached to the bedroom.”

It’s weirdly vulnerable, but Dave doesn’t challenge it. He nods, instead. “I don’t blame you.”

“Little did I know,” Karkat picks up, aggression back in his voice, “that he was just another frat douche rich kid with more issues than money, which he has a fucking _lot_ of. He has two cars. Two fucking cars. It’s good that all I have is a bike, because where the fuck would I park?” During his rant, he’s started drawing water into a wheeled bucket. The back room is horribly lit, dim and yellow, but Dave can still see the red on Karkat’s cheeks. “He doesn’t even do his homework, and his parents are literally _paying_ him to get good grades. It’s not even that fucking hard.” He slams the full bucket on the ground, ignoring how it sloshes, and grabs a nearby mop. “He doesn’t pay rent. His parents literally own the house.”

“How much do they make you pay?”

“Enough,” Karkat says, gritting his teeth.

Enough that he can’t afford a car, Dave thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He knows Karkat is the only employee that works at Tank Time, and that Tank Time is open 52 hours a week, which doesn’t include the work he does before and after hours. Even on minimum wage, he should make enough to save up for a shitty car. At least enough to take out a loan. “How much?” Dave asks.

“Eight hundred a month.”

Hissing, Dave says, “Christ. I don’t pay that much for my whole apartment.”

“I can afford it,” Karkat shrugs. “It’s a nice house.”

“Worth it, though?”

Karkat sets the mop in the bucket, letting the water soak into the tendrils. He pulses it a few times to agitate the soap. “I don’t really have the ability to move right now,” he says finally, and pushes the mop bucket onto the store floor. He begins angrily cleaning, while Dave hangs back in the shadows.

“My brother,” Dave says, out of nowhere, “was a fucking psychopath. I lived with him in a one bedroom apartment for seventeen years.”

Although he’s facing away from Dave, he can still see that he’s stopped completely, mop frozen mid-swipe. “You live alone now,” Karkat recalls.

“Yeah,” Dave says, shuffling his feet. “He died.”

“Ah,” Karkat says. “Parents?”

“He raised me.”

“Ah.”

They don’t say anything else for a while. Dave steals a toy from the discount bin and plays with Kimchi while Karkat mops, and there’s silence in the way of voices; the store is illuminated in sounds of wheezing rubber, clacking nails over a slick surface. The churning of aquarium filters. The wet sound of fabric smacking against tile, sliding to and fro.

It’s dark outside, but someone sees Karkat as he mops in front of the counter. They knock on the door. He points to the unlit open sign.

“I hate people,” he seethes, once they’ve stopped trying to desperately haggle for ‘just five minutes.’

“I got the impression,” Dave says, stepping out from where he’d been hiding.

“I fucking hate that this job makes me deal with people,” Karkat continues, fisting his hands around the mop handle as his shoulders shake. “Why can’t I just never talk to anyone fucking ever.”

“It gets lonely,” Dave comments without meaning to.

Karkat spares him the humiliation of having to explain, or more accurately blow it off without confessing to feeling things. “Lonely? Do I look lonely to you?” He gestures expansively at the store, not pointing at any particular animal cage, but Dave gets the point.

It’d be a good time to lay on thick that this is exactly why Dave wants a cat, but it’s so not genuine. Dave doesn’t want a cat, he wants Rose to talk to him again, and he wants…

Haha. He wants to not be alone, which is why he’s here. Rose is the manifestation of that desire. Karkat is a temporary solution.

He doesn’t say anything about the adoption, in the end, because Dave hasn’t had a conversation that wasn’t 85% fake in at least a month. The amount of lies they’ve wrapped around that issue can go unprodded, just for the moment.

“Why would I ever be lonely,” Karkat goes on, colliding awkwardly with Dave’s silence, “when I’m surrounded by sentient organisms that, unlike humans, are incapable of having shitty intolerable opinions and don’t feel the compulsive, uncontrollable need to torture people for fun? Why would I ever prefer anything over that?”

“Do you have pets at home?” Dave wonders.

Just like that, he deflates. His shoulders actually sag. Dave becomes concerned again, because what if his dog just died or something, what if his roommate killed his cat, what if— “No,” he says finally, and Dave is actually, legitimately shocked.

Karkat starts to push the mop bucket away, but Dave calls after him. “Why not?”

“Pets aren’t allowed where I’m living. They’re afraid of ruining the carpet.” He says it so plainly. Matter-of-fact.

“Caged animals,” Dave says, like he’s invested in this outcome.

“What if they escape?” Karkat mimics, obviously not airing his own thoughts. “It’s fine.” It’s clearly not fine. “I’ve never actually had a pet in my life,” he admits, and if Dave wasn’t already too surprised for flow, he’d probably have been blown over by the admission.

“Holy shit.”

Karkat gives him an odd look over his shoulder. “Were you ever in foster care?”

Dave shakes his head. “No. I got emancipated when I turned seventeen, and moved here to be close to my sister. I had a decent income from making art online, got a webcomic an’ stuff, I take commissions, I could afford it and I was fucking sick of him.” He pauses, looking away. “Bro died before my eighteenth birthday.”

Instead of apologizing, or showing any kind of sympathy, Karkat nods, vicious. “I was in foster care for five years. I lived with eight different families.”

“Christ.”

“They bounced me around a lot because I had anger issues,” he says without the slightest hint of irony. “When they finally found a fit, I was almost eighteen anyway. It was a white family, but they were nice.” Karkat lets go of the mop handle, wanders over to the crab tank, brushes a bit of dust off the hood. “It was the first house I’d been at where they had a pet. When my dad was alive, we kept hermit crabs, but that was it. Dad took care of them for the most part.” Dave’s really glad that he’s not looking at him right now, even though Dave’s own eyes are riveted on Karkat’s back. “They had a rabbit—a lop, the kind with the floppy ears. She had a really dumb name, but I called her Kulira. They let me take care of her.”

He goes silent.

“This got real,” Dave murmurs, unsure of what else to say.

Karkat laughs bitterly. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Naw,” Dave says. “S’all good. Don’t worry about it.” Nodding again, Karkat avoids looking at him as he finally pushes the mop bucket to the back room to dispose of the dirty water.

At some point, Karkat feels the need to reassure him that he usually closes a lot faster than this. Dave snorts, because he doesn’t care. Somewhere between the heartfelt confessions about past and present traumas and the ten minutes they spent tossing a ball between them for Kimchi to chase, he got the impression that this wasn’t his usual afterhours routine.

“Do you like mushrooms?” Dave asks, randomly.

“Uh, yeah,” Karkat answers. “Why?”

“I was just wondering, because they suck, so I thought you would.”

“What the fuck.”

Karkat disappears to count money. Dave lays down on the floor and stares at the stained ceiling until Kimchi gets worried and starts snuffling at his face. Karkat returns, gives him an odd look. “Having fun?”

“Tons,” Dave says.

“I’m almost done,” Karkat informs him, like he can’t just leave at any time.

“Cool,” Dave answers. Karkat scoffs and walks away. Minutes pass. The back door closes, and Dave hears the click of a lock. Or he just imagines it, he’s not sure. Can he even hear a lock from this far away? He definitely hears keys. Probably.

There’s a knock on the door. “What the fuck,” Karkat says. His voice is muffled from down the aisle, so Dave thinks he was just convincing himself he heard the lock and keys. He doesn’t even remember if there’s a lock on that door. “I’m going to rip someone’s face off,” Karkat announces, his footsteps making tiny little stomping sounds on the tile.

Dave sits up. “Nah, dude, it’s fine. I got this.”

Karkat pauses. “What?”

He’s already reaching into his pocket when he gets to the front door, although it takes him a second to figure out which way the lock turns. The deadbolt kinda sticks. “Keep the change,” he says, handing the guy outside a twenty. The dude thanks him, and the smell of hot, fresh pizza fills the building as Dave accepts the box and closes the door. “What?” he says, innocently regarding Karkat’s expression of disbelief.

“...the hell,” Karkat manages, scrunching his forehead.

“Neither of us have eaten today,” Dave says, including himself to make it seem less like charity, even though he’s way used to not eating for long periods of time. He tosses the box on the open space next to the register, then opens it to reveal gooey cheese and steaming vegetables. “Do you got any plates or anything?”

Karkat takes a step back, looking weirdly defensive. “What if I’m vegan?”

Dave gives him a thoughtful look. “Dunno. Are you?”

“No,” Karkat says, scowling.

“Then come get some damn pizza. We can use paper towels for plates if you don’t have any.”

“I have paper plates in the back,” he snaps.

“Then go fuckin’ get them, god damn.”

He blinks widely, expression almost scared, and then turns in the direction of the back room. This time, Dave’s sure he hears the sound of a key entering a lock.

They eat on the floor behind the counter. Kimchi begs, and then curls up at Karkat’s side and sleeps when he refuses to give her any of his pizza. Dave picks the mushrooms off his slice, because they really do suck. They eat and talk about nothing, arguing about meaningless shit, agreeing rarely. They eat the whole pizza and don’t bring up the part where they accidentally bared closely kept secrets to each other without any discernible reason.

Karkat cleans up. “The alarm company is gonna call if I don’t get out of here soon,” he explains. Dave hooks the leash back to Kimchi’s collar. Karkat hovers weirdly. “I have to leave out the back,” he explains.

“Gotcha.” Dave looks at the front door, gives Kimchi’s leash a tug. Karkat’s still looking at him oddly, and Dave gets so uncomfortable that he blurts out, “Please don’t thank me. That makes it gay, dude.”

His expression immediately morphs into a sneer. “I wasn’t going to fucking thank you, asshole.”

“Good,” Dave cuts back, unlocking the front door without waiting for Karkat to do so. “Because—” He doesn’t have a reason, there’s nothing that comes to mind that sounds neutral enough, nonsensical enough, everything is either too mean or too sincere. He changes the subject rapidly, “I hope the fucking bus doesn’t take forever to get here.”

“Not my problem,” Karkat says, grabbing the door to hold it open as Dave passes through, glare affixed to his face.

“You would let poor Kimchi freeze?”

“ _You_ wouldn’t let Kimchi freeze,” Karkat retorts confidently. “Because then I would form a vendetta against you and you’d never adopt an animal in this town again.”

Dave rolls his eyes. “We almost went a day without talking about it.”

“Buying me pizza isn’t going to change my mind.”

“Fuck you, dude, I didn’t think it would.”

“Just making sure,” Karkat says, and lets the door fall closed.

His mind scrambles desperately for a retort as he watches Karkat latch the deadbolt. Nothing comes to him. Karkat raises an eyebrow at him through the foggy glass. Dave flips him off. Karkat smirks and walks away.

It’s starting to snow. Dave carries Kimchi to the bus stop and waits with her on his lap, warming his hands in her thick fur. He keeps his mind deliberately blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> too many feelings i need a shower??? 
> 
> also [this is kimchi](http://corgiguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/ppp-mar17-denni2-wm.jpg)
> 
> thanks for reading this story about dogs and gays


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks welcome back! before you get started on the chapter i have hella links.
> 
> \- i made some [nsfw not canon fanart](http://hermitcrabwithwings.tumblr.com/post/140540061743/this-is-a-totally-not-canon-porn-for-my-fic-tank) for this fic, because i'm a weak person. i couldn't porn in the story, so i porned in another dimension (and i'm not sorry). nothing about this picture is spoilers because it doesn't actually happen, so enjoy.
> 
> \- [mostlyharmless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyharmless/pseuds/mostlyharmless) caught the reference last chapter and requested some gross davekat for her drabble. it is also nsfw, but you can catch [part one here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4171932/chapters/9418692) and [part two here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4171932/chapters/14392708).

Karkat hits the ground running. No, that’s not an exaggeration, he literally hits the ground, because he just jumped from the goddamn deck.

It sounds cooler than it is, because the house is kinda built into a hill, and so the deck is not even a full story above the grass, and he has done stupider shit than jump out of windows to avoid conflict before. Not that Karkat is usually the type to run from a fight, per se, but living in a glorified frat retreat does give one some perspective on the intricacies of battle-picking.

He’s not absolutely certain the guy he heard talking in the kitchen was the same guy with the fuckface who harassed him at work the other day, but he sure as fuck isn’t taking any chances. Instead of going out the side door like he usually would, Karkat locks his room (an old habit, but) and abandons his lunch, instead making a beeline for the back of the house, where he slips out through the sliding doors in the study and makes a run for it, only stopping to unlock his bike from the gate and mount it before zipping off down the street.

When he gets to work, it’s half an hour before he’d usually arrive, which is already significantly earlier than their ten o’clock opening time because it’s a Saturday and Karkat won’t have as much time as he usually does for tasking. He prefers to get shit done in the morning so he doesn’t have to stay late, unlike yesterday.

Not that he minded. The dog was cute. The pizza was good. He refuses to think anything about the company.

With nothing else to do, Karkat chains his bike up behind the store and walks around to the front so he can meander down to the dollar store, because they might have some microwaveable vegetable packs that’ll do over the big fat nothing he has otherwise. For the most part, Mr. Kulkarni lets him come as early and stay as late as he needs to get his stuff done. He’s not a penny pincher and he certainly is not going to complain about the amount of care Karkat puts into the store, so he doesn’t really worry about him freaking out over eight whole dollars if Karkat comes in early. Karkat just writes his punches on a piece of paper outside the office, anyway, and he doubts Mr. Kulkarni even checks the video camera to make sure he’s actually occupying the store at those times. Still, showing up two and a half hours early is a little dodgy, even for him.

He finds a microwaveable packet of frozen corn in fake butter and checks the back of the package to make sure there’s nothing too disgusting inside. He takes that over the vegetable medley that probably tastes like cardboard and comes completely unseasoned. On his way out of the freezer aisle he grabs a box of french toast sticks and some four cheese hot pockets to keep in the freezer for emergencies.

By the time he’s paid and exited the dollar store he’s killed… literally less than five minutes, goddamn it. He figures that he can go inside and have some breakfast and just not punch in for a while. Again, it’s not like Mr. Kulkarni is going to check.

It only takes about ten minutes to decimate half the french toast sticks; he forces himself not to heat up more of them, instead stowing them in the freezer next to the hot pockets (also tempting) and giving in to the desire to be a compulsively attentive employee. Karkat writes in the time on his punch card and by the time he switches the open sign on he’s already completed more than half the things he needed to do for the day.

Shit. It’s gonna be a long eight hours.

He should take some amount of pride in his ability to run out of stuff to do in the middle of a building full of poop machines, but mostly he’s annoyed and bored.

Forty-five minutes after the store opens he’s only had three customers and can’t even find anything to get angry about. No one is challenging him so far today, and instead of having foretold imminent chaos, the morning’s hiccup is turning out to be nothing more than a bad omen for completely uneventful bullshit.

By 9:37 Karkat is considering willing himself to death while lying on the floor of the adoption center where the cats could dispose of the evidence (not that they would, since they eat very well here). Then, the strong stench of weed punches him straight in the nose.

It’s so strong he actually doesn’t even hear the door open because he’s too busy reeling. Now, Karkat is not a virgin, and he’s seen weed at least three times before, but this is fucking _excessive_. “Gamzee,” he says, not that he’s _surprised_ , but. “What the actual fuck.”

He’s back, and grosser than ever. Instead of merely looking like a tweaker, he is obviously high, and isn’t even wearing a jacket. Karkat’s angry black heart makes an unhappy sound when he sees that. Gamzee walks up to the counter in more of a daze than usual—and, honestly, this is the guy who came back two days later when he said two weeks and was surprised when Karkat said he was twelve days early—but he’s smiling like a lunatic, so Karkat is cautiously not terrified. “Sup, bro,” Gamzee says.

Despite Karkat explicitly defining two weeks for him and even putting the date in his phone, Gamzee has stopped in a couple times since their first encounter. He never stops being awful, which is a problem, because Karkat sincerely feels bad for him. He looks way older than he is—only seventeen—and he’s pretty sure no one gives a fuck about this kid aside from, on occasion, himself.

Karkat checks the date. It’s been over two weeks. “Why do you smell like a skunk just emptied its entire asshole into your showerhead, probably while you were standing underneath it cluelessly wondering how you arrived there in the first place, since I’m assuming showering is a foreign concept to you.”

“Aw, man,” Gamzee says, scratching at his arm. He has scabs up and down his scaly, dry skin. Probably eczema. You had it bad when you were a kid, especially in winter. “Sorry, I just got all excited-like, needed a take-me-down, you feel me brother? Weren’t no thing, I can still take a bus, don’t drive or nothin’.”

“What were you all up and excited about, Gamzee,” Karkat says with more patience than the creep deserves, but he’s feeling indulgent. His tone doesn’t even shape a question and his words are sarcastically deadpan but he doesn’t think Gamzee even notices.

“Because, brother, I all up and—” goddamn it “—saved up all the money you said I’d need to take home one of those magical gecko children.”

Then he fucking reaches into his pocket and pulls out the care sheet Karkat gave him. It’s missing the front page and the staple fell out so it’s actually being held together by a bent nail, which is… horrifying, but it’s there, and there are even notes written in the margins and things circled and highlighted. Albeit, the handwriting is completely fucking illegible, but Karkat is actually mildly impressed.

The problem is, he’s not sending a dependent home with a kid who’s clearly fucked up. “Gamzee,” he says, much more carefully. He still doesn’t know what this kid is capable of, and there’s probably a reason he’s a ward of the state that no foster parent could handle (or so he guessed after piecing together the nonsense Gamzee told him about his life). “You realize I can’t sell you an animal while you’re in this condition, right?”

Gamzee freezes up. His eyes don’t go wide, but they go foggy, like he’s no longer seeing Karkat or anything around him properly. His hands hang in the air like he was in mid-gesticulation. His knuckles are all chapped and bruised and his nails need to be trimmed.

“Gamzee?” Karkat repeats warily. Two seconds later, the kid is on the floor holding his head. He makes no sound as he goes down but after Karkat has bolted around the counter he hears wheezy noises as he approaches. “Hey, Gamzee, it’s okay,” he starts, wary. “This doesn’t mean you haven’t made good progress or anything, by all rights you’re more fucking forthright about sticking to your commitments than half the people I talk to. You really read that care sheet, right?” Silence. Come on, you psychotic oaf— At length, Gamzee nods, still snuffling. “That’s good,” you encourage. “Why don’t you let me help you pick out everything you need to enclose the gecko, and then before you leave I’ll let you choose one. If you promise to come back when you’re sober, I will hold the one you want until you’re comfortable enough to pick it up.” He wouldn’t sell it anyway, probably, but miracles are known to happen once every other century.

It takes a bit more cajoling, but eventually he lifts his head to look at Karkat, eyes focusing slowly. “You swear?”

Karkat nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, of course, I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. Look, you wanna grab that care sheet and look at the materials list? I can show you where things are in the store and you can start picking things out, then we’ll look at the geckos, okay?”

Gamzee nods. His eyes are dry, meaning he probably wasn’t crying. Karkat wonders what the whispery sounds were.

Everything goes fairly as expected when he’s helping the kid pick out supplies. Gamzee reads a bullet off and Karkat shows him where it is, explains his options, and gives him as long as he needs to choose. It takes the better part of an hour—which Karkat is actually pretty grateful for. He has to leave once or twice to ring, but he comes back and Gamzee has usually found at least one item from the list on his own. Karkat would not normally reward such a low flying accomplishment, but Gamzee is seriously wasted and is still managing to be semi-semi-functional, so Karkat lets a few nice words escape. No one else is around to witness it and no one would believe Gamzee if he told, so he’s confident nothing bad will come of the lapse.

He ends up sitting in the back playing impromptu therapist because after the cart was stuffed with items and Karkat added up the prices on his phone (plus tax) to make sure everything would fit into Gamzee’s budget, he suggested they look at geckos and Gamzee fell on the floor again. The pathetic excuse for an almost-adult tells him he’s scared and what if he fucks up and babbles things about things Karkat hardly understands, but at least he has the responsibility speech down from every other person he’s sold an animal during his two years of employment. He leans heavily on that spiel, and then has to riff a little bit when Gamzee fails to be consoled.

Of course, that’d be about the time Dave comes in.

The dread he felt when he heard the door open is replaced by surprise, because Dave isn’t the kind of person Karkat pegs for being up before noon on a Saturday. Still, there he is, freckled and pasty-faced and shoving his hood back to squint at them sitting awkwardly on the floor. Karkat looks up at him and wills him not to say anything stupid or insensitive. Dave mouths, ‘Are you okay?’ and wiggles his phone in the air questioningly.

Karkat makes as many ‘no’ gestures as he can along with a phone gesture so Dave doesn’t interpret it as ‘no I am not okay, call the cops.’ (He does not let himself experience anything in the way of emotions about how ready Dave was to go to bat for him.) Just in case Dave held any doubt, Karkat places a hand gingerly on Gamzee’s shoulder and rubs it a little. Dave gets the point and backs off, shoving his phone in his pocket and disappearing down the other side of the aisle.

Karkat hears him walk down the length of the adjacent aisle, then stop, right around the corner from them. (Nope. Still not having any feelings.) Gamzee doesn’t seem to be feeling particularly responsive, so Karkat pulls a face and says, “I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be right back, you can just… sit here.”

He stands up and moves behind the aisles, making eye contact with Dave as he walks over to the reptile racks. If he remembers correctly, it was the bright orange tangerine that Gamzee saw and liked before, so he unlocks the row and scoops that one up, plunking it carefully into a deli cup. He’s still in the juvenile tank but Karkat offhandedly thinks he’s almost big enough to move in with the adults soon, barring different circumstances. As he’s carefully closing the lid over the deli cup, Dave appears behind him. “The fuck is going on?”

He doesn’t quite smack himself in the face when he whirls around in surprise, but it’s a near thing. “Holy fucking shit in a bread bowl, how did you walk up so quietly?”

Dave shrugs. “Old habits. What’s up with the druggie?”

Despite having repeatedly described Gamzee as a tweaker in his own internal monologue, Karkat’s hackles bristle. “Don’t call him that,” he says, frowning. “He’s just a kid.”

Snorting, Dave says, “Yeah, a kid who smells like he just walked out of a Snoop Lion concert. He’s also crying on your floor.”

“He’s not crying,” Karkat snaps, before he adds, “Weirdly enough. I thought he was, but he’s not. I think he’s just really fucked up.”

Dave looks speculatively at the gecko sitting on the counter. “And you’re about to appease him with a human sacrifice?”

Karkat scowls up at him. “Don’t tempt me.”

Holding his hands up in surrender, Dave says, “It wouldn’t work even if I tried. I’m not nearly as cute, and it’d be way harder to swallow my fat ass whole.”

“I’m sure someone would be willing to try.” Karkat refuses to think about the awful ways what he just said could be interpreted by someone as obnoxiously perverse as Dave, instead scooping the deli cup into his hands and walking quickly back to Gamzee. “Hey, Gamzee,” he says, warning him before he sits down close. “I brought someone to see you, alright?”

Gamzee’s head lifts in a jerk and he looks around, panicked, pupils dilated and sclera stained red. Dave quickly steps out of sight. It wasn’t subtle at all, but Gamzee miraculously seems to not have noticed. “I didn’t call anyone,” Karkat snaps, and then actually snaps with his fingers a couple inches from Gamzee’s face. “Look, asshole, at what I have in my hands.” It takes a moment but Gamzee obeys, frowning downwards.

At first Karkat isn’t sure he even knows what he’s looking at, but then he lifts a hand (trembling, ridiculously bony) and draws a single finger over the clear surface of the lid, running over the corrugated air holes. “Motherfuckers what like myself can’t be trusted with such tiny little miracles like that, my brother,” he says, melancholy.

“Okay wait,” Karkat says. “If an asshole like me can be entrusted with an entire store full of helpless captive organisms, anyone can do it. People just don’t care, which is the bulk of the problem. Self awareness is great. The more you hate yourself for something you dislike, the more you can keep that shit in line.” Karkat catches a glimpse of Dave pulling a weird face at him from down the aisle, but it’d be too conspicuous to flick him off now, so he just keeps spewing bullshit. “Like, if you’re aware of the problem you can fight it or some garbage like that. Pets are good rehabilitators.” It doesn’t seem to be working. Karkat makes a pained face back at Dave over Gamzee’s shoulder. “Maybe you can focus on taking care of a companion animal instead of doing so many drugs,” he hazards.

That of all things gets a reaction. Gamzee snorts, then wipes his nose. “You’re much too kind, little brother.”

“Hey. Enough of that crap. I’m almost ten years older than you and I will be addressed with respect.”

Finally he starts laughing, stretches his back, and turns to look at where Dave is peeking around the edge of the aisle, still mostly out of sight. “Don’t gotta hide, brother,” Gamzee says in his direction. “We’re all up and doing great over here.” Dave reluctantly slides out, face blank. He’s got his hand in his hoodie pocket, probably clutching his phone.

“Sup,” he says.

Karkat watches the space between them. It’s not quite crackling, but he suspects they are not particularly keen on each other.

… which is fucking fine, because Karkat has no investment in _either_ of these assholes. Gamzee is a charity case slash business transaction. Dave… is a nuisance. There’s no reason they should ever have to get along or share the same space ever again, especially not in a way that has anything to do with Karkat.

Gamzee raises to his full height, which Karkat belatedly realizes is actually taller than Dave, who is not exactly short. Huh. He’d never noticed, mostly because his temper thinks he is ten times larger than he actually is, which produces some interesting mixed results. “So,” he says, stepping between them to command their attention back. He doesn’t give a damn if he’s only five-foot-three, no six-foot beanpoles are going to start shit with each other in his store. As if Dave hasn’t had a fit in here before—he has no room to judge Gamzee for breaking down. This is practically the pet store of emotional baggage; they should just rename it Tantrum Time and be done with it. “Gamzee, if you aren’t comfortable with taking home a pet, we can put the things back. Don’t pressure yourself into something you aren’t ready for.”

He looks at Karkat, a crooked smile on his chapped lips. “That’s awful accepting of you, brother, but your talking to got to me all sense-like.” With barely a suspicious glance in Dave’s direction, he says, “I’ll just go ahead with what your tender little head suggested and get this motherfucker’s little home set up and come on back to see my new buddy when I’m the soberest bitch left on the block.”

Karkat scrunches his mouth tight to hide a smile, nodding in approval. “Sounds good. Grab your cart and get your ass to the register before I get sick of dealing with this shit.” Gamzee grins and lopes off, still rank and disgusting but looking looser, less manic. As Karkat passes Dave he shoves the deli cup into his hands, muttering, “hold this for me,” as he hops behind cashwrap.

Money changes hands, and Gamzee assures him that he can get all this stuff home on the bus just fine, and Karkat doesn’t question him (though he does question the damp, sticky quality of the bills he was just handed). Gamzee makes it out of the store without hitting the floor a third time, and Karkat shoves the cash he got from him into a ziplock bag instead of the register and scribbles a quick note for Mr. Kulkarni that these probably need to be exchanged at the bank and then destroyed. He grabs the hand sanitizer quickly after.

“Y’know, the most respected prophet in all nine realms could have woken me up in the middle of the night with a blowjob and a vision telling me this was going to happen, and I still wouldn’t have believed you physically capable of being so chill to another person. Are you gonna go in cardiac arrest? Want I should call EMS to stop by an’ check your vitals?”

Karkat takes a deep breath, entreating himself to be calm, and then changes his mind when it doesn’t work, “Fuck off. I’m not heartless.”

“Obviously not,” Dave says, sauntering around the edge of the counter still holding the gecko. “You care more about lizards than most people care about their children, that’s hardly heartless. I’m jus’ saying, you don’t like people much.” Pause, deadpan: “Or has that escaped your notice.”

Scowling, Karkat shoves the plague money bag into the slot on the register. “I’m not just gonna be nasty to some stupid teenager who has no idea what he’s doing and probably has problems of his own that don’t need to be exacerbated by a random asshole cashier.”

“Dude, I’ve literally seen you cuss people out for not wanting to touch bugs.”

Karkat slams his fist on the counter. “Look, if people don’t want to feed reptiles what they’re supposed to fucking eat they need to get a different goddamn pet, it’s common fucking sense.”

Snickering, Dave sets the deli cup on the counter and pushes it over to Karkat’s side. “Right, it is, I’m just sayin’, since when do you care about people’s feelings when it comes to dorks who don’t know their shit?”

He gathers the gecko against his chest like a very small plastic-enclosed child and wrinkles his nose. “Since when do you show up before noon.”

“I got shit to do,” Dave says, shoving his hands in his pockets. Karkat gives him a sceptical look, pausing at the swinging door. “Okay,” Dave admits, “I don’t have jack, I just pulled an all nighter then couldn’t get to sleep after the sun came up.”

Now it’s Karkat’s turn for a derisive snort (though, when is it not?). “Hanging out with friends or something?” He expects Dave to follow him back toward the reptiles but when he takes a few paces and doesn’t hear any movement, he looks over his shoulder to see Dave still standing in the same exact spot, staring after him. “Uh, civilization to Dave?”

“Sorry,” Dave says automatically, “I just thought for a second you implied I had friends, and it was so funny I forgot to laugh.”

“What, with a personality like yours?” Karkat wonders. “I’m shocked.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk.”

Karkat raises his eyebrows and circles back to fully face Dave. “I have friends,” he says, not dignifying the challenge with anything other than that. It’s not even worth getting pissed over. “I have a lot of friends, actually.” Whether he has time to spend with them is not the issue being discussed.

He expects Dave to say something nasty or witty or insincere or sarcastic or otherwise obnoxious, but his brow wrinkles and he actually looks… pretty fucking embarrassed. Karkat is deciding whether or not to be offended or feel patronized when it occurs to him that Dave just sincerely admitted to not having friends himself, and if he follows that to its logical conclusion, he probably assumed Karkat was the same.

Ouch.

“Shit,” Dave says eventually, because he can’t just _not talk_. “That’s cool, then. Good for you.”

Karkat gives him a minute and walks away wordlessly, unboxing the gecko and returning him to his enclosure. He locks the row and wanders back to where Dave was, where he now is not. At first he thinks Dave has bailed, but he didn’t hear the door, and eventually finds him sticking his fingers in the ferret cage. “Is there anything in here you don’t feel entitled to touch?” Karkat wonders, without much venom.

“Plenty,” Dave says, not moving otherwise.

Inspecting him out of the corner of his eye, Karkat mirrors his position, slumping against the opposite side of the cage and shoving his own fingers up against the grate, wiggling them until someone comes over to chew on them. “So,” he says, avoiding Dave’s face. “How come you don’t have any friends?”

“This is bullying,” Dave protests.

“You brought it up.”

“Ugh,” Dave says, pulling his hand away from the ferrets to rub at his eyes under the shades. “I moved recently to be near my sister, which I might’ve already told you. Things here are… different, compared to Houston, I guess.”

“It’s a small east coast city populated mostly by upper-middle class white people, so I can see where you’d get that impression.”

“Fuck off,” Dave sighs. “But yeah, exactly that.” Karkat doesn’t really want to bring it up himself, but he does let his eyes drift to Dave’s pale, freckled hands. He doesn’t feel like speculating, but. “Back in Houston, I didn’t really fit in anywhere, mostly ‘cuz I was a fucking antisocial nerd, but also ‘cuz no one knew what to do with me. Black kids thought I was weird, white kids thought I was weird, and I spoke some Spanish back then but not good enough to, to really get along with anyone else who spoke it, an’ they’d still think I was weird even if I did.”

Karkat drops his gaze, mouth pursing. “That’s tough.”

Dave blinks at him. “It wasn’t, actually, ‘cuz see, in my neighborhood if someone thought your ass was weird they would come outside just to tell you so.” Karkat looks sceptical. “It doesn’t sound like it’d be better, but it was, because people at least paid attention to me ‘n’ stuff. Someone yells out asking me if I’m a fuckin’ ghost or somethin’, and I go shit yeah I’m a ghost. Most ghosts are invisible but I just flunked my ass out of ghost academy so I have to walk around lookin’ like this instead. And they laugh, like, and even though they think you’re an albino freak, they get some respect for you ‘cuz at least you’re funny, right? They harass you but you get a chance to defend yourself kinda, and before you know it you might not have any friends, but you got some guys who think you’re funny and won’t let anyone actually fuck with you. Standing at the bus stop and some kid asks if you’re still black without any melanin and you say of course you are, and that doesn’t mean he _likes_ you any more than he did when he first saw you, but at least he knows you’re not trying to side with white people just because you aren’t dark.”

It sounds weird, but Karkat nods because when Dave explains it like that it almost makes sense, kinda. He thinks he’s had experiences like that before. “Here, uh.” Dave looks uncomfortable. “I should explain that my sister grew up with her mom, who is actually our aunt. My Bro took me an’ Aunt Ro took Rose, because neither of them could handle us both, so I never got to see my sister in person much. When I left Houston, I moved here to be with Rose because she was the only family I had left. I didn’t really think of how different it’d be moving from a neighborhood where white folks were scared to walk to a place where it was… full of them, basically. I didn’t expect the cultural difference of living up North, either.” He’s taking a while longer to get to the point, even for him, so Karkat assumes there’s something he’s building up to that’s a bit harder to say.

“Here, people don’t even wanna look at me.”

Oh.

Brows knit together, Karkat _does_ look up, seeking out Dave’s face but he can’t meet his eyes because he’s got his face half pressed against the ferret cage and is wearing sunglasses besides. “Like, you go to a cashier, just getting some apple juice and doritos, and they glance at you and for a split second their eyes get real wide an’ then they look down and they spend the rest of the transaction staring at a screen, and it’s not incidental, half of everyone does it, because it’s impolite to stare an’ it’s impolite to say anything so instead they just treat you like you don’t fucking exist.” His nose scrunches up in a grimace, but it looks like he’s trying to fight it. “No one gives you a chance to prove yourself, no one talks to you even to call you a faggot; you make them uncomfortable so they pretend you aren’t even fucking there rather than deal with the awkward feelings.”

“Fucking… fuck,” Karkat says, lost for any other words.

“Yeah,” Dave says, without a hint of mirth, even of the self deprecating kind. “And I’m not exactly the kind of person to just go up to someone and make buddy buddy just because I recognize the band name on their t-shirt, but on the rare occasions where I lose my cool enough to try, it’s like…” He shrugs. “I’m still a tall black kid, I guess.”

Karkat runs his fingers back through his hair, grimacing. “People are fucked up,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to even begin to sympathize with this. He’s not good at sympathizing in the first place, but there’s just… so much to process. Karkat is familiar with his existence being ignored, but it’s a peaceful kind of of isolation, if not exactly enjoyable. Standing at the height of the average thirteen-year-old and dressing like an actual fucking marshmallow, he is not especially threatening unless he opens his mouth, which is something he’s not particularly inclined to do outside of work.

No one clutches their purse closer when Karkat walks by. Few people are actively racist enough to straight up refuse to look at him when he goes out in public. Obviously it’s no walk in the park—he’s been antagonized, called slurs, assaulted, all the good stuff—but…

Eurgh. He rubs at his temple, deciding not to think on it too hard. It’s kind of insulting to compare the experiences, anyway.

“Do you really not have anyone?” It seems insensitive to pry further, but Karkat can’t help but ask. Surely Dave has _someone_ and is just exaggerating in the heat of the moment.

Dave snorts softly. “My sister. Her girlfriend. I have a couple online friends.” The list ends. Karkat frowns.

“No wonder you want a cat,” Karkat says without thinking. Dave snorts again, louder, maybe more bitterly.

“I got my reasons, yeah,” he says, and then doesn’t extrapolate. He wets his bottom lip with his tongue, then pulls his face away from the cage bars. There are tiny red imprints left on his white skin, which he promptly rubs at. His hand goes up further, to where his shades are sitting askew on his face. Dave pushes them a few inches up his forehead so he can wipe his wrist over his eyes. Almost instantly after, they’re lowered again, safely over his nose. (His eyelashes were long and white, and he had freckles even over his eyelids. Karkat didn’t see any more than that and he sure as fuck isn’t going to comment on it.) He snuffles. “Man, I think I’m allergic to these things,” he says halfheartedly.

Karkat opens his mouth to say, ‘Well maybe you should stop coming here,’ and then in some divine act of God… reconsiders. “You’re probably just stuffy because you shoved your goddamn face against their cage, loser,” he says instead. It’s not any nicer, but it’s not a rejection. He doesn’t think Dave needs to hear anything like that right now. It’s a weird day for him, feeling sorry for so many people, but something prompts him to keep the ball rolling. “Hey,” he says quietly, “so about the—”

“Fuck,” Dave says at the same time, not noticing Karkat was about to speak. He steps completely away from the cage and paces a few steps away, back to Karkat. “Man, I’m sorry I keep comin’ here and bothering you. I’m such a sack of shit.”

It’s so completely unprecedented that Karkat is reduced to owlish blinking. “I’ve had like three customers all day, man,” he says weakly. “It’s okay.” Although, it’s getting close to noon, which means it’s going to pick up soon, so they won’t be able to just stand there yelling at each other in the middle of the store like they’re wont to do.

“That’s not the point,” Dave says. “I just—” he gesticulates silently, caught in some private battle he’s not sure how to word. Karkat isn’t sure how to help him. “I’m so—” he cuts himself off, very blatantly, like he was about to reveal something more than personal and caught it at the last second. “We’re not even fucking friends,” he finally says.

Karkat isn’t sure how to disagree. He’s pretty sure he’s never said anything nicer than condescendingly neutral to Dave the entire time the kid’s been showing up, so while his present instinct may be to deny what Dave is saying, he isn’t sure that’s an entirely honest response.

They _aren’t_ friends. Dave really only comes by to harass him about the adoption since it’s convenient, what with him washing windows on the strip and all.

“Plenty of my customers aren’t my friends,” Karkat says eventually.

“I’ve never bought a single goddamn thing from here,” Dave retorts like he was waiting for it.

“That’s fine,” Karkat says, starting to get uncomfortable. “It’s whatever, I don’t fucking care.”

“That’s exactly why I end up hanging out here,” Dave says, voice suddenly lowered. Karkat almost misses it.

“What?”

“You don’t care,” Dave repeats. “You hate everyone equally like a shitty edgelord facebook meme that’s just a screencap of something that originated on myspace, jpeg artifacts and all. It’s hilarious how gettin’ constantly screamed at is actually comforting after bein’ ignored for so long.” Before the last word leaves his lips Dave is already turning red; over his cheeks and at the tips of his ears. He claps a hand over his face and then makes a beeline for the door.

Karkat doesn’t think about the consequences of leaving the store unwatched. He chases him out. “Dave, wait!”

Dave stops at the edge of Tank Time’s property, pulling his hood back over his head. “Yo,” he says, turning halfway back toward Karkat but keeping his face pointed toward the ground.

“Look, I don’t know how much community service you’ve completed,” Karkat says, shoving his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. He has no idea how Dave—who’s from fucking Texas of all places—manages in just his shirt and a hoodie. “But don’t worry about the rest.” Dave’s face contorts to one of confusion. “You don’t have to fucking come here every day and feel awkward and shit, just. Don’t even fucking bother, alright?”

“What am I gonna do about the stupid fucking qualifications then?” Dave asks, turning his hands out. He isn’t usually this expressive, which makes Karkat feel oddly terrible.

He’s also panicking because he doesn’t know what to say, after having told Dave that the community service was mandatory. “I… can waive it,” he stutters out, grasping desperately for some kind of excuse. Dave looks unimpressed. “If you consent to a background check I can waive the community service requirement,” Karkat finally spits out in one breath.

Dave goes blank again. Karkat feels even worse about that. “A background check.”

“Yeah, it’s just, we do the community service because we need to have the reassurance, that, you know. Most people aren’t going to want to do a background check but it’s an alternative, and you won’t have to come up here every day, and if the results come back clean I can approve your adoption.” Not that he will. He doesn’t even know how to file for a background check, to be honest.

Despite looking like he’s about to tear his hair out, Dave keeps his hands at his sides. He lifts them a bit, then drops them again, pursing his lips and fidgeting. “You know what, fine. Cool. Do you need written consent?”

“No,” Karkat says. He has no idea if he actually would need written consent, but he’s not filing it anyway, so it doesn’t matter. “I’ll just, uh, run the paperwork. And get back to you.”

“Cool,” Dave says, not looking cool at all. “You’ve got my number.”

“Yeah,” Karkat agrees, because he does and has no idea what else to say. “Just. Take it easy, okay?”

“Sure,” says Dave, curt, probably not even looking at him anymore. He jams his hands in his pockets.

“You didn’t, uh, forget your phone inside again, right?”

“No,” answers Dave, sliding it out an inch so Karkat can see he has it before pushing his hands back into the worn jacket.

“Do you ever get cold?” Karkat asks.

“Yeah,” Dave says, and turns to leave without saying another word. Karkat can’t think of anything to say to stop him, so he watches his back until he reaches the bus stop. When he gets back inside he discovers he’s lost all feeling in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sincere apologies for bullshit dave angst in everything i'm updating lately lol (if i have any [filter through](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1792723) readers peeking at this, it finally updated after forever and a half! spoiler: it's bullshit angst) 
> 
> things will improve next chapter! kinda.


	7. Chapter 7

He tells himself he’s only coming back because he didn’t realize Kimchi was almost out of dry food and didn’t actually buy any when he took her to Tank Time on Friday. Karkat obviously didn’t want him around, which…

It doesn’t hurt, necessarily, in the way that Striders don’t allow themselves to feel pain even when their hearts are being carved out by twenty axes simultaneously, all in various states of rusty disrepair and wielded by uncoordinated wildlife being puppeted by a blind voodoo priest with a vendetta against coolness.

Which is not to say that Dave is upset about Karkat telling him to fuck off. Because he’s not. They aren’t even friends, like Karkat said. Or he said. He doesn’t really remember that conversation so well, to be honest.

He’s hooking Kimchi’s leash to her collar when his phone rings. It’s weird, because his phone never rings unless Rose is calling him, and that’s kind of why he’s in this situation in the first place. Dave picks up the phone and hesitantly brings it to his ear, vaguely concerned that he’s being stalked and this is the creepy first contact predating his murder. “Yo.” He keeps the question out of his voice.

The call turns out to be hella not what he was expecting: it’s a gallery from downtown that he emailed actual fucking months ago—like a lot of months—enquiring about opportunities for displaying his work. He took a traditional painting class, just for shits and giggles, and didn’t hate it as much as Rose predicted he would. Too sincere, she suggested, but the joke was on her, because Dave referenced an endless stream of dead shit and sex toys for his inspiration, which succeeded in both alienating half the class _and_ prompting his teacher to give him the contact info for the gallery that’s calling him right now.

Dave hangs up and tentatively pegs the emotion he’s experiencing as excitement, though he isn’t completely sure. They want him to bring stuff by. Holy shit.

He removes Kimchi from the leash. He’ll walk her later—right now he has to get to the gallery, which he highly suspects is named Last Minute As Fuck, because they asked how soon he could show up. By the time he gets back to his apartment and is unearthing paintings from his closet he’s already pulled up several different maps and bus schedules, until he is granted a horrified vision of taking paintings on the bus and calls for a taxi instead.

After he meets with the interested dildo enthusiasts, he’ll still have to go somewhere to get food for Kimchi, but maybe he can just stop by a grocery or something. Yeah, maybe.

Dave changes his mind when he realizes the gallery is about twenty minutes down his usual bus line—which is to say, the one he takes to get to Tank Time. He fidgets, and chews at the corner of his lip, and leans forward to talk to the driver.

Five minutes. Just in and out. Just get the dog food and—

Karkat looks up and his bored expression changes drastically. Dave is a bit overwhelmed on the feeling things front; he looks away so he doesn’t have to spend emotional energy deciphering what that look means. “Hey, I just need to get some food for Kimchi,” he says, staring hard at the hermit crab tank. Karkat’s taken the sign off again. They are pretty cool, actually, when kept all proper like and allowed to climb and dig. Dave had no idea.  

Walking out from behind the counter, Karkat asks, “Do you need help, uh, finding anything?”

Dave turns back to him, brow scrunched dubiously. “Dude, I’m here like. Every day.”

Karkat hunches his shoulders and scowls. His chin disappears under his wide, high collar. “I’m just fucking asking, jeez.”

“Jeez,” Dave deadpans in response, leaving to the dog food aisle. He gets the smallest bag he can, because he doesn’t want to carry it everywhere, but he also doesn’t want to stop anywhere else, so this was the lesser of two evils. Even if he has to deal with Karkat. He takes it up to the register and avoids making small talk, even though he might actually like to talk about his interests for once. He looks at the line of dust around one of the counter displays and doesn’t say anything.

“You’re leaving already?” Karkat asks, scanning the bag of food.

The pause that follows is as ambiguous as it is uncomfortable. “I got somewhere to be, I guess,” Dave answers neutrally, once he remembers how to make sounds.

Karkat snorts, taking Dave’s proffered credit card. “When do you ever have somewhere to be?”

Dave inspects him oddly, and Karkat seems to shrivel under the stare. “I have a meeting with a gallery that wants to show some of my work,” he says without inflection.

“...work?”

“Paintings,” Dave says, then he rips his own receipt off the printer and grabs the food without waiting for Karkat to put it in a bag. Karkat doesn’t say anything as he stalks out the door, the bell jingling merrily with his departure. Maybe that’s for the best.

* * *

His taxi doesn’t come. Dave calls the company twice, sighs, then asks the lady at the gallery counter if she has a bag he can use. They only wanted to hang about half of his paintings, which means he has to take the rest of them home, along with the dog food that he stupidly neglected to contain. She hands him a huge plastic bag meant for large sketch pieces, then helps him reinforce the loops with duct tape so nothing rips when he puts the leftover paintings and dog food inside. (She thinks of that because as he walked in, the bag he brought his work in did, in fact, rip.)

Dave walks to the main bus line, because he doesn’t need to waste thirty cents on a transfer when the bus would only take him a few blocks before he had to get off anyway. He kind of regrets the decision, but fortunately Dave is not as weak as his scrawny frame would have people believe, thanks to his crazy dead brother.

Thinking about something else now.

He thinks about something else so hard he ends up missing the next bus. He wastes time calculating the time it’ll take the next bus to arrive at the next stop, decides to walk instead of just waiting, and then almost misses _that_ bus and has to run an entire block just to get to the stop at the same time as it does. When he gets on, the bus driver is laughing at him.

Great.

Dave slumps in his seat, exhausted. He doesn’t even have the energy to check whether or not his paintings got damaged when he was running. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He can die like this.

Despite wanting to slip into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness and knowing his street won’t come up for fifteen minutes, Dave’s eyes inadvertently flick open at every new stop. He checks the surroundings and determines what he already knows: this is not where he has to get off, and proceeds to close his eyes until he has to repeat it all over again.

The bus pulls up to the intersection right by the strip mall he’s become very, very familiar with in the past few weeks, though he’s usually on the other side of the street. It means there’s only ten minutes until he gets home, which is relieving. Dave doesn’t do this much outside time, usually—without Rose around he’s been even less social, and without persistently bugging Karkat he’d be completely isolated and probably forget what it was like to talk and become one of those feral children living in a closet ordering take-out online and leaving instructions for the delivery person to set it outside the door and run if they want to ever kiss their abuela again.

He doesn’t have to worry about bugging Karkat anymore, which… is disappointing in ways Dave doesn’t know how to deal with. He’s not going to get the cat. Rose won’t talk to him again. And on top of that, he still doesn’t have any friends. Not that Karkat was a prospective friend anyway, but just hypotheti— holy shit what.

Lost in thought, Dave forgot he wasn’t going to look longingly at Tank Time like a puppy in reverse. Instead of a faraway view of the grungy, radioactive storefront, however, Dave gets a good look at a small body bent over on the bench at his usual stop, looking uncharacteristically distressed, hands over his face, black hair a mess.

It’s Karkat. Dave isn’t quite close enough to get too many details, but it looks like he’s fucking _crying_. He disbelieves the notion so sincerely that he actually shoves his shades up his forehead an inch, just enough to look through the window uninhibited. Karkat’s crumpled pose doesn’t look any less like despairing, which is starting to seriously freak Dave out.

The bus lurches back into motion. Dave watches with wide eyes as the bench slowly slides out of his line of vision, taking Karkat with it.

They get one block and then Dave hauls on the stop request cord, already scrambling to his feet.

It takes forever for the bus to slow down and longer for the doors to creak open. Dave is already at the side exit, waiting expectantly with his bag in hand. (He almost forgot it, but the person across the aisle said something before he could get too far.) The moment he figures he can fit through the jerky sliding doors without losing anything, Dave is gone, onto the curb, not minding how long he waited for that bus or the fact that he doesn’t have a transfer and will have to pay twice if he ever wants to see his beloved bed again.

He runs diagonally across the street, burdened by his goods but not letting it stop him. His pace slows as he makes it over the crosswalk, leaving about half a block between him and the bench. Karkat hasn’t moved, face still in his hands, his shoulders are shaking visibly from this distance, and as Dave’s steps (faltering, now) grow nearer he begins to hear the sound of Karkat’s sobs.

Dave doesn’t know what to do. He comes to a full halt, just two pavement squares away from the bench, and stares.

A full minute passes, then Karkat’s head snaps around and he snarls, “Find something else to stare at, assho—oh.” Dave was probably the last person he was expecting to see, and it shows: his shoulders hunch up around his ears and he jerks his face away, staring at the ground and not saying anything else. There’s still tears flowing down his cheeks.

Shifting his weight uncomfortably, Dave says, “Hey, dude.” He doesn’t ask if Karkat is alright because it’s kind of obvious he isn’t.

Karkat snuffles loudly and wipes the sleeve of his sweater across his face. Dave thinks he has some napkins in his pocket— yep, he does. He takes the opportunity to walk closer, holding them out by the very corner in case they accidentally touch while the offering is exchanging hands. Karkat squints up at him through his swollen, reddened eyes—how long was he crying, even? shit—but he takes them, then blows his nose messily. “Thanks,” he mutters. Dave eases himself onto the bench, staying as close to the edge as he can so Karkat doesn’t feel crowded.

“So,” he says, cautious. “Can I ask?”

Huffing a bitter laugh, Karkat says, “If I say no you’ll still be sitting here.”

“I can leave,” Dave offers, after a brief moment of thought.

“No,” Karkat says. He doesn’t look up at him, his fist curled around the dirty napkin. “You don’t… You don’t…” He trembles on the last two words, and Dave looks up just in time to see him burst into tears anew.

“Hey, Karkat—”

“My house got robbed last night,” he squeaks out, his chest constricted as he holds back sobs.  

Dave feels his own chest go tight. “Fuck.”

“Everything they stole belonged to my roommate,” Karkat says, wiping his nose and mouth with a second napkin. “I lock my room, so they didn’t get anything of mine, except they—” He stutters, hiccuping. “They cut my bike chain and stole my bike. I had to, fucking, walk to work this morning. I was so dazed; I was in my room the whole time, already asleep. Everyone else was in the fucking basement, these assholes just walked in and stole shit.”

Swallowing, Dave offers, “At least no one got hurt?”

Karkat snorts. “At _least_.” He rubs his wrists over his eyes. “My roommate called me a few hours ago and had the _audacity_ to blame _me_. Like I’m the one who fucking left the front door unlocked! That titsucking ape said they’d obviously followed me from downtown so they could steal my bike and everything else was opportunity, which is _god-damn-fucking-bullshit and he KNOWS it_.” He has to pause to breathe, on the verge of hyperventilation. Dave clutches his fist around the duct-tape covered bag handles and does not pat his back or offer comfort.

“What a horse’s ass,” Dave agrees.

“Yes,” Karkat says, nodding viciously. “He fucking is. He really thinks someone followed my broke ass forty-five minutes just so they could take my shitty bike? And not that someone, probably one of his shit eating frat brothers, knew he was completely irresponsible about locking doors and any insinuation of home security, and took advantage of the fact that he is _completely predictable_ about his beer pong schedule, which is so goddamn embarrassing I hate myself for having said it out loud. God is punishing me right now. Some medieval torture artists are going to pop out of the sewer and rip out my tongue for the audacity.”

“Let’s not go that far,” suggests Dave, leaning back against the bench and sighing. “I’m guessing you aren’t just rage crying while waiting for the bus, though,” he says, before immediately adding, “Not that there’d be a problem with that, dude, let it all out.”

Karkat squints at him, and then looks down just as his eyes start getting watery again. “Yeah. No. I got a text from him an hour ago. His dad flew in with the spare key to my room.” Dave’s eyes go wide behind his shades. “They curbed my shit and told me not to come back. They’re straight up blaming me and I— and I—” His voice cracks again. “I don’t have anywhere to go. That’s all I fucking had, and I could hire a van to move my stuff—whatever’s left of it—but what would I fucking do with it? I should just fucking lay in the street and return my body to the fucking asphalt where it belongs—”   

“Or,” Dave cuts in, “Instead of that, I could text the weird guy who lives in my apartment building and ask if he’s free to lend his truck to a good cause.”

His mouth opens but he lets it hang there, processing. Karkat slowly closes his mouth, chews on his lip, then says, “What part of ‘I don’t have anywhere to go’ don’t you understand.”

Dave cocks an eyebrow over his shades. “I mean, I figured since he’s fixin’ to go back to our building anyway, we’d just make that a final destination type thing. For now, I mean.” It’s as direct as he’s going to get, which is to say: not direct at all.

As such, it takes Karkat a minute to catch his drift. “Wait. What.”

It’d be polite to reiterate the point more clearly, but Dave wasn’t raised like that. He shrugs, self conscious. “I got a couch, man,” he says, cagey.

“I’m loud and irritable and a terrible roommate,” Karkat snaps, sounding almost as defensive as Dave does.

“Well, shit, it’s not like I asked you to marry me,” Dave says. “But I got a buncha space in my basement storage where you could stash your stuff until you find a new apartment.”

Karkat’s face crumples. He looks more broken than before now that Dave’s doubled down on his offer. “Seriously?”

The sound of squealing brakes interrupts what would have been Dave’s response. The bus Dave would have showed up on is at the stop, and the doors open. Dave stands up, hauling his bag off the ground. “C’mon,” he says. “There’s another bus company that runs this line, too. It usually shows up a few minutes after this one.” He pauses, hazarding a smirk. “Unless you got somewhere else to be, in which case.” He gestures at the bus going the other direction.

“No,” Karkat says, standing up and brushing the wrinkles out of his sweater. “Let’s go.”

* * *

His bed is gone. Someone took the whole futon, including the mattress. They stuff his clothes in bags because his dresser is still there, but Jack said he’d been looking for something like that and offered to take that as payment for the ride instead of cash. Karkat decided he didn’t have anything better to do with it. They do grab his nightstand and desk, which hadn’t been snatched up yet, although apparently there’s a few valuables he isn’t finding. Karkat is tight-lipped about it, though, so Dave doesn’t know exactly what they are.

Everything that isn’t furniture goes into garbage bags that are shoved in the back of the truck along with the three pieces he has left. The desk chair is gone, but he just shrugs it off.

Jack helps them bring the desk and the nightstand into Dave’s basement storage, and then they help him move the dresser into _his_ basement storage. He doesn’t bother with ‘thank you’ or ‘later’ as he walks up to his apartment and slams the door, which Dave is grateful for because he is kind of creepy, in a two-steps-from-becoming-a-serial-killer type way.

Once they get the last of the bags Karkat doesn’t need shoved into the basement, Dave starts the trek upstairs, hefting a single bag of some clothes and toiletries. Karkat hangs back, fidgeting his hands. “Dude,” Dave says, not looking directly at him. “It’s cold as fuck down here. Let’s seek out some heat before I start belting Disney songs.”

“You’re so obnoxiously Southern,” Karkat sneers. “I don’t know how you survive up here.”

“Spite, mostly. My sister didn’t think I’d make it, either.”

“You’d have an easier time if you wore weather appropriate clothes,” Karkat comments.

Dave looks down at his hoodie-and-long-t combo. “Yeah, maybe. I’m lazy as shit, though.” Karkat steps away from the storage room and shuffles after him to the stairwell. “I realize I’m talking to Sweater King over here. How’s the erotic autoasphyxiation kink working for you, by the way? Does strangling yourself in public really do it for you or somethin’?”

“God for-fucking-bid I not want to turn an icicle on the way to work,” Karkat says sourly.

“Okay, but what’s your excuse for: A) Not taking it off once you get to work, and B) Wearing the same sweater every single day. Mix it up a little, Vantas. Try some dusky coral or polkadots. Colourful stripes. Argyle, even.”

“Maybe I just like grey.”

“Maybe you just like looking like a dweeb.”

“You are so not one to talk, asshole.”

Snickering quietly, Dave pulls his keys out of his pocket. “What, Ninja Turtles not your thing?”

“I haven’t seen you wear that since we first met,” Karkat comments. “I hoped you’d burned it.”

“No such luck, my dude. Your ferret friends peed on it and I just didn’t get around to doing laundry.”

“What?” Karkat says, scowling. “Ew, it’s been almost three weeks.”

“Yeup,” Dave says, turning the key and pushing his door open. “I’d say ‘mi casa es su casa’ but to be honest, we don’t actually say that, like ever. Make yourself at home anyway, though.” He drops Karkat’s bag on the corner of the futon couch, then surveys his apartment. It’s lowkey a mess, not that bad, but not super impressive. His room is totally worse. He feels around for his bag and— frick. “Hey, I left my bag in Jack’s car. I’ll be right back. If you’re hungry I have stuff in the fridge, aight?” Karkat grunts and Dave jogs out the door and down the stairs.

He makes plenty of noise hauling his bag up the stairs seven or eight minutes later, but when he slides in the unlocked door, Karkat jumps. “Whoa there,” Dave says, holding up his free hand in a pacifying gesture. “Settle down, stallion.”

“I fucking hate you,” Karkat bemoans.

“Yeah, well.” Dave shrugs, then starts unloading his paintings onto the nearest desk. He has a ton of desks scattered around the apartment, all hosting different work spaces. He doesn’t have a closet darkroom anymore and instead pays someone who has a privately owned one for use of theirs. His stations include a computer desk (in his room), an actual drawing table that doubles as a painting easel, a second table covered in electronics that exists just for mixing, and a fourth, miscellaneous desktop surface that he mostly just piles crap on. He inspects said crap, then frowns. “Hey, so, I definitely had no reason to expect company today and so am woefully unprepared. I never knew my ma, but I’m sure her hospitable Southern soul is in utter fucking turmoil right now. I don’t even have any coffee cake or sweet tea to offer you, shit. Anyway, my point is, if you could find it in you to take like…” he thinks hard for a second, “a twenty-five minute shower, that’d be great.”

Karkat’s shoulders hunch up at his ears. “That’s not really—”

“Dude, c’mon,” Dave interrupts. “Southern hospitality. Don’t be culturally insensitive. You’re gonna offend my ancestors.”

“The spirits of your noble Texan forebears?”

“Naturally, dude. Didn’t you hear? The new wave of ancestor veneration is happening right here in the US-of-A, the anal prolapse of the North American continent. I’m a devoted follower of Westernized Eastern religious philosophy. I will spout uncited Hindu discourse at you until you need to literally scrub the rage off your skin with a grill scraper.”

He thinks he almost sees what could be the start of a tiny baby smile twitch on Karkat’s lips, but Karkat’s about as good at looking unhappy as Dave is at looking like nothing at all, so the potential is gone before he can place it. “You’re really desperate right now, aren’t you.”

“Damn straight I am. I’m anything you want me to be, baby, so long as it ends with you getting all wet ‘n’ naked in my bathroom while I make a ditch effort at pretending I don’t live in filth.”

Rolling his eyes, Karkat throws his bag over his shoulder. “You’re living a lie, Strider.”

“Don’t rub it in. Bathroom’s on the right.”

He busies himself the second Karkat disappears behind the door and the lock clicks in place. Not that he really needed to—it’s not like there’s anyone here but Dave, but he doesn’t blame the guy for being paranoid. Dave spends the first ten minutes frantically picking shit up and putting it either where it goes, or in convenient storage bins he’s going to have a hell of a time sorting later. Fifteen minutes left on the clock and he surveys his domain, squinting his eyes behind his shades.

The futon is old, and kind of ratty. Bro let him have it when he left; said he was sick of it and would just get a new one after he sold Dave’s kid bed. (Dave doesn’t let himself feel bad. Bro was a jackass. Bro was a jackass and he hated Dave and made Dave hate himself. It doesn’t matter if he never got to see him before he died. He refuses to blame himself.) The frame’s still good, but the mattress is flattened and dirty and has probably seen more weird fetish activity than the casting couch itself. Dave grimaces, and walks into his bedroom.

Stripping off the sheets, he throws them into the laundry basket, which he moves into the living room. He folds up his laptop to make space on the desk and shoves it in his bag, which he sets on the futon. The pile of mostly-worthless garbage he keeps on the stand next to his bed is swept into a bag and shoved in the nearest drawer that will fit it. Thanks to Kanaya, he has at least two changes of sheets. Thanks to Bro, he’s never actually taken advantage of that.

Now he does, selecting the least obnoxious set (plain maroon) and making the bed as fast as he can. He doesn’t know how closely Karkat will adhere to the twenty-five minute suggestion, but he’s got no more than five minutes before that time is up, so he’s quick about changing the pillowcase to the matching one for the set and doesn’t think about how Bro would mock him for giving a shit. Southern hospitality Dave’s freckled albino ass—Dave wasn’t even raised to hide sex toys when visitors were present. (And boy, there were a lot of them. Ha. Ha.)

In the end, Karkat doesn’t come out of the shower until a little over half an hour has passed. Dave has time to find a tiny travel pack of tissues and set it on the nightstand along with an unopened water bottle, before deciding this is adequately welcoming and steps out of the room, leaving the evidence of his sappy generosity hidden behind a mostly-closed door.

Dave’s sitting super casually on the futon, staring at his phone and hoping he doesn’t look nervous. (His foot fidgets. Stop that.) He counts the seconds after hearing the door open, counts the footsteps, waits long enough that he doesn’t look too eager before he turns around, looking over the arm of the futon at Karkaaaaaawhoa.

He’s fully clothed. Not that Dave expected him _not_ to be, since this is a rescue, not a seduction, but he’s somehow less clothed than Dave’s ever seen him. His trademark grey sweater is thrown over his arm and he’s only wearing a deep red long-sleeved shirt and his jeans. He even put his socks and shoes back on. The only thing really out of place is his hair, obviously having suffered an attempt at drying, judging by the towel draped over his shoulders, but still thick and dripping and brushed back from his forehead instead of hanging low over his eyes like the fringe of a feral beast.

Halfway through a covert study of his exposed face, droplets of water streaming down his temples, Dave keys in on something and nearly jumps off the futon. “Holy shit, dude, you have facial piercings?”

Karkat’s attention snaps to him and he pulls a face that Dave can’t quite identify. “Piercing,” he says. “Singular.” Sure enough, his right eyebrow is framed by two spikes. It’s the edgiest fucking Hot Topic jewellery Dave has ever seen. All he’s missing is a pair of snakebites and a strong sense of nostalgia for Good Charlotte and MCR. Suddenly the black nailpolish he’s always wearing is put into context.

“I never knew you were lowkey trashpunk,” Dave says, completely unable to hide the small half-grin that exposes a thin slice of teeth.

“What.”

“See, I wondered about the nailpolish, and the fact that you never brush your hair, and never smile. But you’re also apparently enough of a douche to get a piercing and then keep your hair so long that no one even knows it’s there. That’s some next level irony, bro. Good job.”

“Fuck off,” Karkat says, “There’s nothing wrong with my hair.” As if to punctuate the point, he reaches up with his free arm and violently ruffles the sodden mass, spraying water everywhere. His bangs fall back into place, but Dave can still see the piercing through the spiky wet strands.

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with your hair,” Dave says, ridiculously excited although he has no idea why. “I’m saying that going through all the effort of getting a needle jammed through your flesh so you could decorate it with metal and then ensuring no one knows it’s there is fucking incredible and exactly what I’d expect you to do. I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out sooner.”

Karkat stares at him for several seconds, and then, of all things, he _smirks_. “I guess you’re right,” he says, looking down at his aforementioned chipped nails, “considering you haven’t even seen the rest of them.”

Dave’s brain stalls. “What. The rest? Where—”

“I have to make a phone call,” says Karkat breezily, and walks straight past Dave and out the front door.

* * *

He spends the next ten minutes furiously planning what he’s going to say when Karkat comes back inside. It’s extremely difficult to gauge how he was supposed to take that, but he’s getting some ideas. Where else would he be pierced? Does Dave really want to think about those possibilities modeled by _Karkat Vantas_ , the shortest marshmallow-shaped misanthrope this side of a young adult novel?

In the end, he has no idea what to say, which isn’t a problem because Karkat returns looking much wearier than when he left. He shuffles back into the apartment, jamming his phone into his jeans pocket, and sighs through his nose, the rest of his face twisted up in a grimace. He stands there staring at nothing until Dave voices a timid, “Hey?”

“Hey,” Karkat answers, turning toward him with a blank expression.

Dave mentally flails, glancing around the room for a convenient conversation starter. “So.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Be more awkward,” he says nastily, passing Dave up to go lean against a wall, snatching up his phone again and scowling down at it.

It stings more than it should. Dave tries to hide it, though, sitting up and fussing with more stuff like he isn’t bothered by Karkat’s penduluming attitude. His face stays hot, fingers tense as he struggles not to let his hands visibly shake, until he reaches down behind the couch and his fingers brush the bag of dog food he bought earlier. Right. He still has to feed Kimchi.

“Hey,” he says again, lifting up the bag of food. “I have to go feed this dog.”

Glancing up, Karkat blinks. “Huh?”

“I don’t know when Ms. Watson will be home; she said she might be late, and I have to drop off the food anyway.”

Karkat fidgets, sliding his phone back into his pocket once more. “Okay. Cool.”

Dave shifts, getting off the couch and onto his feet. “Wanna come with?”

Without his phone to stare at, Karkat is left looking forlornly at the floor. He wrinkles his eyebrows at the invitation and doesn’t try to meet Dave’s gaze. “Would that be… okay?”

“Sure,” Dave says, shrugging. “I don’t see why bringing a complete and total stranger into someone’s living space after they entrusted me to take care of their dog would be a problem.”

Snorting, Karkat says, “Yeah, nailed it.”

Dave hefts the bag of food under one arm and grabs his keys. “Forreal though. Coming?”

Karkat shrugs. “Sure. Whatever.”

As much as Dave wants to mock him for pretending he doesn’t care, he leaves off. Karkat’s probably dealing with enough emotions right now as it is; he doesn’t need an excess of antagonism on top of it. Friendly ribbing is one thing, but Dave has to remember that even if Karkat’s staying with him, there’s… boundaries. They aren’t friends, he reminds himself. He’s just doing this kid a favour in hopes that it’ll bode better for him in the future.

(Right. Keep telling yourself that, Dave.)

They can hear Kimchi shuffling at the door, whimpering excitedly, before Dave even gets the key in the lock. Dave knows there’s a gate at the edge of the hallway preventing her from getting all the way to the door and being able to run out, but he doesn’t mention it, which is why it’s super cute when Karkat bends at the knees, hands spread slightly when Dave finally gets the door open, like he’s waiting to bar an excited pup from bursting out of the apartment. Before Dave can think of anything to say about it, Karkat is gone, through the door and reaching over the dog gate to scratch Kimchi behind the ears, cooing softly at her.

Karkat isn’t looking in his direction, so Dave doesn’t try to hide his smile. He opens the tin for Kimchi’s dry food and cuts a hole in the bag so he can pour the kibble into the nearly empty container, watching out of the corner of his eye as Karkat climbs over the dog gate and gets to his knees so he’s at a better angle to scratch Kimchi’s wiggly fluffy butt. Dave grabs Kimchi’s food bowl and rinses the crusty remains of the wet food she didn’t finish earlier, then portions a scoop of kibble and some wet food into the dish. Usually he’d run it about five seconds in the microwave just so the gravy isn’t cold and congealed, but that’s when he notices that both Karkat and the dog have gone quiet.

Dave goes similarly silent, because Kimchi is lying on her side, looking contented, and Karkat is lying on the floor facedown in her fur, one hand still idly stroking her chest. His breath comes slow, so Dave doesn’t think he’s crying, but he is crushed under a flood of feelings all the same.

After letting them be for about five minutes, Dave slowly creeps over to the dog gate, opening it quietly before he slides down to the kitchen floor beside them. He gives Kimchi a pet between the ears before setting her food down next to her, not making a sound other than the soft click of ceramic on linoleum.

Kimchi sniffs at the bowl, then flops right-side-up so she can eat, dislodging Karkat. He doesn’t make much of a fuss: he shifts to supporting his head with his right arm, running the fingers of his left hand through her fur as she munches, not seeming to mind the unwarmed gravy.

His attention shifts to the phone and he doesn’t talk while they both sit there, listening to Kimchi snuffle while she eats. The minutes pass unacknowledged: Dave responds to an email, watches a video without sound, and reads a couple blog posts. Kimchi finishing her food and moseying away to her water dish is what reminds him to look up, when he realizes that Karkat doesn’t move in response to her. In fact, Karkat is still face down on the floor, head resting on his elbow, arm stretched out. Motionless.

… he’s either dead, in which case fuck, or he’s asleep. He’s still breathing, so Dave picks the second option.

It’s creepy to watch people sleep, but Dave does it anyway, studying the small sliver of Karkat’s face that he can see. He doesn’t dare touch him, even to brush away the lock of hair that’s stuck against the corner of his mouth. He just looks at him, keeping his breath shallow like that alone might wake Karkat up and ruin the moment. He doesn’t look peaceful in sleep, he looks. Exhausted. Wrung out.

It’s been at least half an hour since they popped in, and Dave starts to get nervous. He doesn’t know how to wake Karkat up, especially not without touching him, and no. Not even a tap on his shoulder. He barely even touches his own sister.

Dave is saved from peril by a short fluffy dog who has far less shame than he does. Kimchi wanders back over to them, snuffling, and shoves her nose right in Karkat’s face, then licks him. Dave watches intensely as Karkat tenses, jerks a bit, then realizes what’s happening. He basically melts after that, laughing quietly, and it might be the first time he’s heard Karkat laugh literally ever, at least from something other than bitterness or spite. Karkat really seems to relax around animals, which makes it even more fucked up that he’s never had one of his own. The guy would probably do a lot better if he had constant access to this kind of validation.

Worried about being caught staring, Dave quickly looks back down at his phone and counts down from 50 in his head before he looks back at Karkat. He only gets to 23 before he hears a groan and a ‘what the fuck’ at his side, at which point it’d be fucking obnoxious to pretend he didn’t hear and keep gawping at his phone, so he glances at Karkat, feigning disinterest and humming a question. “I can’t believe you let me fall asleep on the floor,” Karkat grouses.

“Looked like you needed it, dude,” Dave says, then immediately feels self conscious about appearing concerned or overly sentimental or anything else that someone could mock him for. “Anyway, not to rush you, but unless you want Ms. Watson opening that door to find us crashing in her hallway, we should probably move our fine asses to greener pastures, by which I mean my apartment.”

That gets Karkat moving pretty quickly. Dave picks up Kimchi’s dish and scribbles a note while Karkat says goodbye, pressing his forehead against Kimchi’s and scratching her ears. Dave is at the door before Karkat tears himself away, fastening the dog gate behind him.

They’re halfway down the hallway when a gravelly, stern voice calls down the hall, “David? Is that you?”

Dave turns toward it, putting on a small smile because she complains about his manners if he doesn’t. “My name’s just Dave, Ms. Watson, but yeah, hey. Just finished feeding Kimchi. She’s doin’ good.”

His neighbor approaches the two of them. She’s a composed lady with a proud face and a blazer sharp enough to wear to church on Easter Sunday. “Did she behave well?”

“Oh yeah, def. I got her some new food, by the way, you were almost out.”

Ms. Watson purses her lips and then reaches for the handbag at her side. “Thank you David— ahem, Dave. How much did it cost you?”

“That’s my secret, Ms. Watson, don’t worry about it,” he says, holding up a hand. “We’re cool. I just enjoyed the company.”

Her stern expression softens at the eyes. Dave’s tiny smile gets a bit less obedient and a bit more genuine. “Well,” she says, patting her purse and reaching her hand out for his, a gesture he obliges after a second of hesitation. “Thank you. You’re a quality young man.” Her hands are wrinkled and soft and he pulls away as soon as she lets go. Ms. Watson nods at Karkat as they cross paths, but Dave doesn’t watch for his response because his skin is burning where she touched it.

Karkat looks at him oddly when they get back to his door. “What?” Dave asks, edgy.

“Nothing,” Karkat says quickly, brushing past him as he walks into the apartment. “I think I should actually sleep though.” He glances at his phone. “I’m going to accept that I’m a fucking hopeless loser who gets tired at nine thirty, but—”

“Naw, man,” Dave says, waving a hand. “Go do your thing. You’ve had a day.” He flops on the futon, stretching his back before reaching for the tv remote.

“Um,” Karkat says.

Dave cocks an eyebrow above his shades. “Sup?”

“I…” He doesn’t look like he knows what to say, and Dave is obviously running on fumes too because it takes him a while to figure out what Karkat’s getting at.

“Oh, fuck. I’m a dumbass,” Dave says, standing up. “I didn’t tell you.”

Karkat squints. “Didn’t tell me what?”

Dave jerks his head toward his bedroom, then guides Karkat over himself. He pushes the door open and gestures, now a bit self conscious about the crummy tissue pack and lukewarm water bottle.

Karkat, though, is staring at it like it’s a five star hotel room or something. “You can’t be serious,” he says.

“I changed the sheets, dude, no homo, it’s fine—”

Karkat rounds on him. “You said you had a couch.”

Dave blinks. “Yeah, and I’m gonna sleep on it. It’s my apartment, and I sleep on my futon all the time. You’ve had a rough day, you don’t need to be bugged by me messin’ around at two in the morning, I have hella nightmares so I sleep super fucked up like, I’ll be awake for two hours and then sleep for four then wake up for half an hour and pass out again, it’s garbage—”

“You’re letting me sleep in your room,” Karkat says slowly, not caring that he’s interrupted Dave twice.

He shifts. “Yeah, that’s what’s happening here, I guess. I put your bag over there.”

Though it looks like he’s about to take a step into the room, Karkat ends up not moving. He chews his lip absently, then asks, “Can I lock the door?”

Incredulous, Dave says, “Whatever you need to do, man. Knock yourself out.” Then he walks away, because holy shit. He thought _he_ had issues. They’re more alike than it seems at first glance, which is a weird thought that he can’t let go of once it’s occurred to him.

He ends up back on the futon, hitting play on whatever was in the DVD player when he was watching last. It’s _27 Dresses_ , because he and John used to play this game where they’d close their eyes and reach into a bargain bin full of movies, and they had to buy whatever they picked (unless they’d watched it before). John is busy with finals, so Dave plays the game by himself every now and again, and spams John’s idle chat window with a liveblog of what’s going on just to spite him.

Dave watches mechanically, not really registering what’s going on but feeling way too braindead to worry about it or turn it off or do anything, really. It’s mindless. He doesn’t think of anything until halfway through the movie he hears the creak of his bedroom door sliding open.

Turning on the couch, he blinks back at the figure staggering blearily into the hallway. Karkat looks exactly the same except he’s in socks and sweatpants instead of jeans. He even seems to be wearing the same shirt from earlier, because of course he is. Dave blinks. “You okay, dude?” he asks, voice low.

Karkat’s mouth tightens and he pauses his trek. “I can’t sleep,” he finally admits.

Dave snorts. “I feel. C’mon, pull up a seat.” He scoots over to give Karkat room to sit down, which the other guy accepts after a moment. “Sorry about the trash film, my best friend and I have this like, game we play—”

“I love this movie,” Karkat says quietly.

Shit. “Well then.”

Karkat glares at him, but it’s mild. “It’s a good criticism of heterosexist norms wherein women are forced to compete for a proverbial spotlight and devalued based on whether or not they achieve it.”

“Like how a bridesmaid ain’t supposed to look prettier than the bride because it’ll steal her thunder or some shit? Or how fashions in Europe used to change based on the queen’s appearance because no one was allowed to be prettier than her or it’d throw off her womanly vibes because women are expected to look good before anything else?”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Karkat says, with conviction.

Dave snorts. “Cool.” He settles back in the couch, letting his attention drift again. Karkat balls himself up at the foot of the futon, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. He gazes blearily at the screen and barely blinks. Dave doesn’t think about how he’s watching Karkat out of the corner of his eye instead of focusing on the movie. “Hey, you thirsty?”

Lifting a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug, Karkat mumbles, “Sure.”

“Awesome. One sec.” Dave stands up and wanders into the kitchen, opening the fridge and coming back with both hands full. When he returns, Karkat gives him a stare that could probably melt plastic.

“What the fuck are you.”

“Thirsty,” Dave responds, perching one of the juice boxes on the arm of the futon so he can unwrap the straw on his own. “Haven’t you ever had a juice box before?”

“When I was six, maybe,” Karkat snarks, frowning at the little box like it’s going to eat him if he tries to touch it.

“Damn shame,” Dave says. “Ain’t no better way to cheer up than with a juice box and some doritos. I usedta really like those 3D ones but they don’t make ‘em anymore, which fuckin’ blows, like. I heard someone say they still made ‘em in Mexico? But actually searching has produced no doritos of the three-dimensional variety, and thus I am left bereft.”

“Bereft,” Karkat repeats drily.

“Yep. Drink your juice, asshole.”

Karkat grumbles but he obeys, shedding the straw’s thin wrapper and jabbing it mercilessly through the tinfoil target. He gives it a dubious look before finally acquiescing and wrapping his lips around the skinny straw. “Do you also drink milk out of sippy cups?” he enquires acridly.

Dave snickers. “Naw. I usually just buy a big jug of apple juice from Costco, but I always keep some juice boxes for emergencies.”

“So it is true that simple people have simple pleasures.”

“Damn right. Though I think the rule is: never doubt a cool kid's devotion to irony.”

Karkat's expression is very dry. “No, I think I was right the first time. Now, shut up. I want to finish the fucking movie.”

“Excuse me,” Dave says, lifting his hands in surrender.

Settling in and looking a little less uncomfortable this time, Karkat says, “You're excused,” and takes another sip from his juice box.

He's asleep again before the movie ends, still upright on the couch with his knees at his chest and juice box in hand. When the credits finally run and he hasn't budged, Dave stretches one sock-clad foot out, barely breathing as he ever-so-lightly bumps Karkat in the side. “Dude, wake up,” he whispers, even if that's kind of defeating the point of waking Karkat up. “I gotta sleep too.”

Mumbling in displeasure, Karkat eventually does get up, dragging himself and his half finished juice into the bedroom. Dave hears the lock click behind him.

He swallows.

Then he forces his body back into motion, grabbing a spare blanket and clicking the tv display off so the living room is plunged into darkness. He drops his crushed juice box on the coffee table and tucks himself underneath the blanket, then proceeds to fall asleep while musing on the memory of Karkat's slow, shallow breaths.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all's gonna shit y'all's selves. happy reading. >:33

The bus system turns out to be pretty easy to use the first time, which is probably because it’s literally just one bus, and Dave wrote everything down for him like he’s five. He didn’t even text it to him—some horseshit about how he shouldn’t be looking at his phone, which makes absolutely no sense because Dave’s always looking at _his_ phone, but. So Karkat went to work holding a pink piece of paper with a pony on it and refused to find any aspect of the situation endearing.

On the way back, he gets cocky.

Actually, he panics. Ten minutes before closing he texts Nepeta asking if he can come over, and is already mapping out the bus route on his phone before she responds with the (fortunate) affirmative. Karkat’s never used the bus system before. Once he was sixteen, he drove his dad’s car until it quit, then sold it for scrap and bought a bike. It was a good bike. He custom decaled it in honour of his dad and then rode it exclusively for five years, with the exception of that one year before he started working at Tank Time when he was working as a delivery boy and had to drive the company truck.

Then he got into an accident and lost his job, which is about when Mr. Kulkarni made the best/worst decision of his professional life and gave him a job.

Now his bike is gone after many years of reliable service, and he’s shivering on a street corner because he made it about three quarters of the way to Nepeta’s loft and then got on the last bus going the wrong direction and had to call her to rescue him.

It’s encroaching on seven thirty by the time Nepeta gets him safely into her loft, which looks like a burned out bomb shelter from the outside, but inside is shockingly cozy. It’s not a great neighborhood but both she and Equius are tough as nails, so it doesn’t seem to bother them.

He is immediately greeted by an entire herd of cats and feels no shame about falling to his knees, already fighting tears. Nepeta isn’t as tactful as Dave, which is both a good thing and a bad thing he guesses, but either way she stands there, half smiling and watching as he scratches every cat that he can while at least four others rub against his body, all purring or meowing in some way.

Then, Sir Charles comes sauntering up, and that’s it, he’s bursting into tears. He has a new collar that matches his fur really nicely and a tag that says ‘Chauncy’ which is close enough to his chosen name that he doesn’t have the energy to make a snarky comment and instead he just scoops the abyssinian into his arms and gurgles quietly.

“Nepeta, is that— Oh. Hm. I didn’t know we had company.”

And that would be Equius. Karkat keeps his face hidden behind as many cats as he can manage to get between him and any prying eyes. “He’s having a rough day,” Nepeta says, and gently ushers her nonsexual life partner out of the hallway. “The cat room is on the left, Karkitty,” she informs him as they disappear to whisper about him where he can’t hear.

That’s fine. This is fine.

Crying is much better when one is not in public in the freezing cold. Karkat manages to make it into the dubbed cat room—it’s a majestic wonderland, and if Dave could only see it, he’d know why Karkat adopted a cat out to Nepeta with minimal mind tricks and bullshit. Even Karkat couldn’t argue that this expertly crafted feline haven would be better for any of his adoptees than the kennels they are currently in, regardless of how many times he lets them out during the day.  The loft has one actual bedroom and a bathroom, leaving everything else open. They set up some privacy curtains to fence off their bunk bed, which Karkat can’t believe they sleep on despite being fully developed adults, but there they go anyway.

The bedroom itself was converted into the cat room. It has several massive cat trees, all designed and built by the pair themselves. The walls are installed with ramps, and there are fresh plants on a large windowsill planter, all edible and safe. Toys scatter the floor, along with food and water dishes for daily grazing. The cats roam freely, but the room is a holy homage to the most pure, intense love of animals that Karkat has witnessed off the internet in anyone but himself.

He lays on the floor and cries until he can’t cry anymore, not just about the housing situation, but because he misses his dad. Because he liked his bike. Because he wants his own animal to cuddle and obsess over, and isn’t expected to say goodbye to after a few days/weeks/months. Because he doesn’t want to take the bus everywhere, and because it’s hard to pretend everything is normal at work when he’s homeless and distraught.

Because he didn’t expect Dave to be so nice to him, and he has no idea how to go back and face him, because his friends care about him and Karkat has come to accept that after harsh trial period, but he doesn’t know how to deal with an almost-stranger treating him with such fucking unbelievable kindness.

He also cries because the cats are soft, and because there’s hair on the floor that gets in his eye, and because he completely forgot to eat today, even though there was still a hot pocket in the freezer at work.

When Karkat runs out of tears, Nepeta shows up with a mug of hot chocolate that smells like peppermint and tastes like vodka. Amazing. “Equius is making dinner,” she says in a chipper voice. Equius is vegetarian too, and a surprisingly good cook, so Karkat keeps his mouth shut and hopes she doesn’t hear his stomach gurgle.

“That’s cool,” he says, voice scratchy. She shoves a box of tissues at him, which he accepts.

“Sooooo,” Nepeta says, preparing to tactfully pry.

“I got kicked out of my apartment and a weird hot guy who stalks me at work saved me from losing everything I own and sleeping on the streets. Instead I only lost about half of what I owned, and am sleeping in his bed.”

Nepeta opens her mouth, then closes it. “With him?”

Karkat balks, then turns red. “I’m not peddling my asshole for housing, believe it or not. I’m not quite that desperate and hopefully will continue not to be.” She snickers. “No, he let me sleep _alone_ in his room and he slept on the couch.”

“That was nice of him,” she says positively. “You said he was hot?”

Blinking, Karkat says, “No I didn’t.”

Nepeta narrows her eyes and leans forward toward him. “You absolutely said he was hot. I don’t make mistakes like this.” As if on cue, one of her cats starts rubbing against her elbow. She welcomes the purring body into her lap, stroking it like a very confident supervillain.

“He isn’t hot, he’s a fucking loser,” Karkat stresses. “I’m not attracted to him. At all.”

“There’s something here about ladies and protesting too much,” Nepeta says generously.

Karkat narrows his eyes right back at her. “I’m not a lady, fortunately.”

They stare at each other from a few inches away for a few seconds then Nepeta breaks off, snickering. “Whatever, you’re still totally into him.”

“Not!”

“What’s his name?”

Karkat wracks his brain for pros and cons to telling her, trying to remember if he ever let anything slip about Dave before. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t talk about Dave to any of his friends, because Dave isn’t… wasn’t… isn’t? a friend. Shit. Dave’s a stranger, except, no he really isn’t. He’s been coming around for weeks and Karkat has told him things he hasn’t told people much closer to him, and Karkat has a feeling that some of the things _Dave_ has told him were extremely personal, too, as far as one can accurately measure when Dave purports to not have any friends.

In the end, Karkat doesn’t know what Dave is, and he’s so distracted puzzling over that that he ends up answering Nepeta honestly: “His name’s Dave.” Silence. Karkat distractedly glances at Nepeta, who’s patting the cat in her lap. “Nepeta? Did you hear me?”

“Dave?” she wonders.

“Yeah.”

“You mean that one guy who came in and argued with you because you wouldn’t let him have a cat?”

Oh, shit. Karkat forgot that they’d met.

Oh _shit_.

“I guess so,” Karkat hedges, before rushing on to explain. “I do this with everyone, though, he’s just— he’s _really fucking persistent_. I scare everyone away, except for you, you’re an exception. Only he’s so fucking mediocre but he won’t leave, he insists on accepting every heap of shit I hurl at him. Nepeta, I got him to agree to a goddamn _background check_.”

She nods enthusiastically, not speaking as she processes the information. He expects— Karkat isn’t sure what he expects from her, commiseration, maybe. He should have known better. “You absolutely have a crush on him,” she says finally, with confidence.

“Fuck off,” he spits.

“No, listen,” she insists, flapping her hands in the air with excitement. “You’re enamored by his _purrsistence_.”

“Don’t with the purring,” Karkat says tiredly.

Nepeta giggles. “Persistence. You find it attractive that this boy who is otherwise a loser is so desperate for your validation that he will endure your constant abuse and work hard to change your opinion of him! It’s basically your romantic dream.”

“Nightmare,” he corrects through gritted teeth.

“You like it,” she asserts, smug.

“I cannot stand him.”

“And yet! You’re sleeping in his bed.”

“I was desperate.”

“You called him hot.”

“You imagined that.”

A voice calls from the other room, but Karkat is so heated he misses what it says. Nepeta only grins, scooping the cat in her lap into her arms as she stands. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, Karkitty. You’ll figure it out eventually. The foundation is already there.” Then she cackles as she leaves the room, cat draped over her shoulder. A second later, she sticks her head back in. “Dinner’s ready, by the way.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “I’ll be there in a second.” She smirks, nods, then disappears around the corner.

… he doesn’t have a crush on Dave. That he knows for sure. Dave is a nuisance. A better person than he thought, yes, but still a huge, gigantic pain and also a fucking loser nerd. Karkat isn’t attracted to him at all, but Nepeta might not be wrong about one thing, which burns him to think, but. It does help that Dave isn’t running away. It does mean something that this stupid kid keeps trying to meet his demands, even if they’re deliberately set up to see him fail. It’s not endearing or inspiring, but it reminds Karkat of himself a lot. The desire to meet an impossible odd.

He might have to accept that he does want to be Dave’s friend.

There’s a knock on the doorjamb.

“Ahem, Karkat,” says the intruder, and Karkat can literally feel the nervous sweat oozing out of his pores. Equius doesn’t know what to do with him much. “Might I remind you that it is incredibly common and, ah, impolite to keep your hosts waiting when you’ve been informed that a meal is ready. I don’t know how they do it where you come from, but it is proper to not eat until everyone has washed and come to the table—”

“Can it, Equius,” Karkat says, brushing the cat hair off his jeans as he stands. “I’m coming.”

“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” he says, wiping his brow.

“Equiuuuuus,” Nepeta calls from the kitchen area. “Karkat isn’t five, stop nannying and come back over here!”

“Yeah Equius,” Karkat mimics, tone malicious.

The giant man before him seems to quiver, which is hilarious because Karkat is well over a foot shorter than him. “Oh dear,” he says, and smears a trembling hand down his now glistening arm before gathering what’s left of his pride and hustling away.

“He’s right, though, Karkat; we’re hungry!” Nepeta scolds.

Karkat sneers in her direction as he approaches the kitchen sink. “I can’t forget to wash my hands, because apparently I’m a dirty heathen who eats after touching cats or something.” He does, and he knows Nepeta does, too, but he’s not going to get into an argument about it. Not right now. He has too much to think about.

* * *

After dinner, Nepeta insists on driving Karkat home instead of letting him endure the bus system. It’s only about a twenty minute drive, as opposed to over an hour bussing. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he was counting on the extra processing time, and so twenty minutes later they arrive outside of Dave’s apartment building and Karkat promptly has a panic attack.

“Oh my god,” Nepeta says, dropping her phone in her lap as she realizes he is hyperventilating. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Do I need to call EMS?”

Karkat holds up one hand, wheezing between the fingers of the other one. “I’mfine! It’s, it’s, fine, it’s—”

“Karkat, slow down,” Nepeta says, grabbing his hand in her fist and reaching over to pat his back. It isn’t necessarily gentle or soothing but it’s grounding and that works a little. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a way to put it into words and didn’t have time to figure that out, so as Nepeta’s expression grows increasingly more worried, Karkat eventually manages to force out the words: “Why are people _nice?_ ”

Nepeta drops her hand, brow furrowing. “Is that _really_ what this is about?”

Face crumpling into a scowl, Karkat turns on her. His nails dig into his palm. “Of course that’s what this is about! That’s what everything’s about! People aren’t nice, especially not strangers, especially not people who have every reason to resent me and revel in my pain! People do not just _enjoy my company_ nor do they _want to help me_.”

“I both enjoy your company and want to help you,” Nepeta says, hurt.

Karkat bulldozes past her, not because he doesn’t care, but because he is incapable of stopping. “You don’t count. You know me. You know…” He pauses. “How I am.”

Recognition dawns on her face. “Karkat,” says Nepeta carefully, the tiniest hint of sadness in her voice, “I thought you were past the thing where you pushed people away because you hate yourself too much to allow someone to genuinely like you.” It’s blunt, because Nepeta is not a delicate person, no matter how much she cares. She is sensitive in the way a lion is sensitive as it rips out your throat and then asks you about your cold.

“Dave doesn’t like me,” Karkat says reflexively, although the signs would point to that statement not being entirely true.

Nepeta rolls her eyes. “Whatever you want to say, Karkat. I for one am not going to sit here and enable your pity party.” Karkat looks up at her in alarm. His lungs are still tight and his hands are shaking, even if he got distracted from his short-of-breath ranting. “Especially not while you insult both yourself and everyone who actually cares about you!”

“Nepeta, wait—”

“Nope,” she says, and in a swift motion unbuckles her seatbelt so she can reach over him to unlock his door, then shoves him out of the car. Karkat scrabbles at the window, seconds too late to shove his body back inside the protection of the cabin.

“Nepeta!” he wails, already shivering.

“ _No_ ,” she calls through the now-locked car. “You’re going to deal with this on your own since you obviously don’t want help! Call me when you stop being a jerk.” The car lurches into motion and Karkat flings himself back to avoid his toes being crushed. Then she’s gone, and it’s freezing, and Karkat doesn’t want to go inside and face Dave, but he reasons he has to because it’s way too cold, and he makes that decision seconds before realizing there’s a lock on the door and he doesn’t remember Dave’s apartment number.

Shit.

He could hit the closest number he remembers on the buzzer and hope they take pity on his soul and let him in, or he could throw himself under the nearest bus. It takes about five minutes of panicking before Karkat realizes that he has Dave’s phone number and could call him to let him know he’s at the door. He doesn’t want to, because that would involve some awkward explanation, but he realizes, with no small amount of horror, that he’s going to need to explain where he was _anyway_ , no matter what he does.

Throwing himself under a bus sounds better and better, but he doesn’t want to die cold and Mr. Kulkarni would have a hard time replacing him and Karkat doesn’t trust the man himself to maintain the standard of upkeep the store pets need to live a comfortable life.

Karkat closes his eyes before pressing dial, and holds his breath the entire time it’s ringing.

… it goes to voicemail.

Oh god, is Dave _ignoring him?_ Maybe he doesn’t remember Karkat’s number, fuck, he should have texted, stupid idiot— Karkat hurriedly texts him “i’ts karkat ’m outside” and his fingers aren’t quite working right from a combination of the frigid air and the screeching anxiety. Karkat holds his breath for additional seconds, and… nothing. Fuck. Dave really is ignoring him. He fucked up.

Nepeta was right and he knows it. He pushed too hard with his ungrateful ass and now Dave’s not going to let him in, he lost all his stuff after all and his phone is barely half charged— God damn it. Maybe if he explains it Mr. Kulkarni will let him sleep in the back room for the night and then tomorrow he can find a hotel. He has some money. It’ll be fine. It’s gonna be fine. He just, maybe Dave will at least curb the rest of his stuff instead of just throwing it straight in the garbage, so he can get _some_ of it back—

“Young man. Excuse me, young man.” The stern voice at his back makes Karkat jump.

“IpromiseIwasn’tbreakingin!” he shouts in one breath before realizing who’s addressing him. A small, straight-backed black woman stands on the stoop, inspecting him over the rim of her glasses. She’s holding a large bag in her arms. Karkat recognizes her after a few minutes as Dave’s neighbor, but he can’t quite remember her name. “Oh, uh. Hey, Mrs...”

“ _Miz_ Watson,” she stresses, clucking her tongue with displeasure. “David seems to have forgotten how to introduce people, because I don’t know your name either,” she notes. She recognizes him. Karkat doesn’t know how to feel.

He clears his throat. “I’m Karkat Vantas, ma’am.”

She nods. “A pleasure. Could you carry this bag for me, Karkat?”

When he realizes she’s going to get him inside, whether she knows what she’s doing or not, Karkat springs eagerly forward to grab her things. She gives him a critical look but relinquishes her possessions once he looks appropriately abashed for his awkward enthusiasm. With her hands free, Ms. Watson steps up to the buzzer and slides a key card through the reader, unlocking the door. She holds the door open for him, which makes him feel ashamed and uncharitable despite the fact that he’s holding her bag—she doesn’t know the favour she just did him—so Karkat awkwardly finagles the second door open and holds it for her. She says a brisk ‘thank you’ as she passes.

From there on, Karkat follows her up the stairs. She walks powerfully despite her small stature, not seeming winded at all by the stairs. “Isn’t there an elevator?” Karkat asks without thinking.

“There is,” Ms. Watson says curtly. “But I prefer to stay trim and exercised.”

“Got it,” Karkat says, trying to hide his face behind the bag. It succeeds to a point, since it’s a large bag, but then he can’t see and trips over the stairs. Ms. Watson throws him a sceptical look over her shoulder, but keeps walking.

As they’re ascending the final level of stairs before what Karkat belatedly recognizes as Dave’s floor, his phone beeps. His arms are too full to check it, but that was his text alert. It’s probably Nepeta making sure that he isn’t dead on the side of the road, no thanks to her. He’s trying to figure out how to get his phone out of his pocket without dropping the bag when a door in front of him flies open and Dave bursts out.

He turns, hesitates. “Oh hey, sup Ms. Wats— Karkat!” It’s an exclamation. Like, an honest-to-god exclamation, emotion and everything. Karkat isn’t sure what he is perceiving just happened. Dave doesn’t really do the yelling thing, even if Karkat has heard him talking with some feeling before. He’s always so restrained, but now he looks almost _manic_. “There you fucking are,” he says, and oh.

Right.

“I, uh, got sidetracked,” Karkat starts to explain, but Ms. Watson cuts in.

“Gentlemen,” she says, jangling her keys, “I hate to interrupt, but here is my door.”

“Duh,” says Dave, immediately stepping forward. “Here, let me help—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ms. Watson says. “Karkat has assisted me just fine. You can put the bag on the counter, then have yourself a nice night, Mr. Vantas,” she instructs, gesturing into her open apartment. Kimchi is shuffling at the dog gate, but Karkat doesn’t risk stopping to say hi, much as he wants to.

Nodding awkwardly as he exits, Karkat mumbles, “You too, Ms. Watson,” and passes into the hallway. The door closes behind him, leaving him alone with Dave. He should have stopped to pet Kimchi and put this moment off, even if only for a few minutes. “Uh,” he says. “Hey.”

Dave’s mouth tightens at the corners. “Hey.” Karkat doesn’t know what to say after that. He fully expects Dave to tell him to get his shit and fuck off. He’s waiting for it, watching Dave’s forehead scrunch, and then he opens his mouth and something Karkat doesn’t expect comes out. “Dude. You’re like, crazy shivering.

Surprised, Karkat looks down at his hands. Huh. So he is. “...it’s cold outside,” he says, not mentioning the panic attack.

“How long were you out there?”

Karkat doesn’t know. “Long enough.”

Dave sighs. “Come inside, man, let me get you some hot cider or something.”

“What is with you and juice?” Karkat asks, although he doesn’t mean to complain. It just comes naturally.

Throwing a reproachful look over his shoulder, Dave says, “I like it. Do you want something else instead?”

“No,” Karkat says, feeling like shit already. “That’s fine.” He follows Dave into the kitchen, not wanting to see the living room where Dave slept, or the door leading to his bedroom. Mentally, he’s calculating how best to get his stuff and leave before Dave throws him out. Maybe if he cuts it short without making it hard on Dave then he will at least let him sell his remaining furniture and keep the money.

There’s silence as Dave putters, and it lasts until he gets the apple cider into the microwave. “Where the fuck were you even at, dude?” Dave asks, half under his breath. Karkat barely hears him over the whirr of the microwave.

“I stopped by a friend’s house on the way back from work.”

Dave hunches his shoulders, staring at the spinning mug. “And you couldn’t like, text me to let me know?”

Karkat’s hackles raise, almost without him realizing it. “I’m sorry, I forgot that I miraculously grew another dad. Do I have a curfew now, too?”

“No, dude, but I know there’s people out there who want to fuck you up and suddenly you’re out and I ain’t got any way of contacting you because you never gave me your personal number, and I got a little freaked out, okay?”

He’s floored. What the fuck? “Do you think I need you to protect me?” It sounds ridiculous even to his ears, but Karkat can’t stop himself. “Is this some kind of sick charity fetish or what? I don’t need you to be my guardian fucking angel, thank you very much. Just because you housed me for a night does not mean I’m now your devoted little pet. I can take care of myself, I don’t need anyone to _look after_ me or _worry about_ me, especially not fucking _you_. I don’t even fucking _like_ you!”

Dave goes very still. The microwave beeps. He doesn’t move to retrieve the mug. “Okay,” he says, his voice flat and painfully empty, like Karkat somehow just confirmed his worst fear.

Fuck. How could he? Dave was nothing but nice to him and he just threw it back in this kid’s face like the most undeserving piece of shit this side of New England. He wants to apologize, but the word dries up on his tongue. He doesn’t know what to do or how to fix this.

And then his body moves on autopilot.

Karkat grabs the front of Dave’s shirt, yanking him around to face him. He’s close enough to see that Dave’s eyes have gone wide, even with the shades in the way. He feels Dave’s body coiling defensively, ready for a blow, but he doesn’t need to because when Karkat pulls him down, the only thing smashing into Dave’s mouth is his own.

It lasts. The kiss is chaste but Dave immediately melts into it; barely a second and he’s pressing back against Karkat’s lips. His body stays tense and rigid, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all, until Karkat leans back and lets him straighten up.

Karkat clears his throat and looks aside.

“Okay,” Dave says again, his voice funny.

“Right,” Karkat says. He elbows his way past Dave, focusing all of his attention on the microwave and showing no reaction to whatever the heck just happened. The mug is almost too hot to touch—Dave put it in for too long—but he grabs it anyway, ignoring how his palms smart as he makes a beeline across the kitchen and toward Dave’s bedroom. If Dave wants to kick him out tonight, it can fucking wait. He closes the door behind him and locks it, as if that will somehow hide his shame.

* * *

AC: oh my god!! what did i tell you?  
CG: I KNOW, OKAY, YOU DON’T HAVE TO RUB IT IN.  
AC: no i am serious what did i tell you  
CG: UGH  
AC: karkattt  
CG: YOU TOLD ME NOT TO LET MY SELF LOATHING GET IN THE WAY OF FORMING MEANINGFUL BONDS, AND ALSO NOT TO FLIP THE FUCK OUT.  
AC: and what did you go and do  
CG: ...FLIP THE FUCK OUT  
AC: KARKAT  
CG: I’M SORRY, OKAY? I COULDN’T FUCKING HELP MYSELF, BECAUSE I’M A PIECE OF SHIT, AND NOW EVERYONE KNOWS, AND YOU CAN ALL JOIN HANDS AND PLAY KARKAT’S-A-FUCKING-DICKASS WHILE SKIPPING IN CIRCLES AROUND MY SHAME SWOLLEN CORPSE.  
AC: thats not what im trying to say here! stop doing this!!  
CG: UGH. SORRY.  
AC: did you at least apologize?  
CG: FOR WHICH PART.  
AC: not the kissing part…..  
CG: I DIDN’T APOLOGIZE FOR EITHER, THOUGH I THINK THE LATTER MIGHT REQUIRE A BIT MORE GROVELING THAN THE FORMER.  
AC: :33  
CG: STOP THAT.  
AC: no, shan’t~  
CG: GOD DAMN IT.  
AC: ok no my point is that you cant just sweep him off his feet and expect everything to be okay after you so massively messed up! im sure if he didnt freak out when you kissed him then he at least felt somewhat positively about it so you can just go up and apologize for being a huge brat and then ask him to marry you like youre obviously meant to.  
CG: YOU ALMOST HAD SOMETHING GOOD GOING THERE, NEPETA, AND THEN YOU FUCKED IT UP. IS IT IMITATE KARKAT TIME? BECAUSE THIS SOUNDS _STUNNINGLY_ LIKE MY OWN TRACK RECORD.  
AC: haha ok i deserve that!  
AC: seriously though you havent actually liked anyone since terezi  
CG: AND THAT TURNED OUT SO FUCKING WELL DIDN’T IT.  
AC: this will turn out better if you’re open to _actually learning from your mistakes_  
CG: I DON’T LIKE THIS CONVERSATION.  
AC: its almost like i don’t care!! >:33  
CG: I’M CALLING 911.  
AC: ok, well after you do that go apawlogize to dave  
CG: CAT PUNS. STOP.  
AC: only after you say you’re sorry and that you apurreciate everything hes done for you  
CG: I’M BLOCKING YOU.  
AC: but how can i offishiate your wedding if you do that? ;33  
CG: FUCKING TIT-SHITTING CHRIST GOODBYE FOREVER.

* * *

When he comes out, much, much later, Dave is sitting on the couch. Karkat winds the long way around so he can sit as far from Dave as possible, still not managing to meet his eyes or even look directly at him. He tries to tell what Dave’s thinking from his posture, but Dave isn’t giving anything away while sprawled extremely casually and not even giving him any sidelong glances, wistful or otherwise.

Okay, maybe his brain is getting ahead of him. It’s not like Dave actually had a crush on him or anything, Dave is just a really chill person, maybe a little desperate, and he’s okay with letting Karkat fuck up like that because he’s just… nice. Nicer than Karkat expected or was willing to accept. Just because Dave didn’t freak out doesn’t mean they get to _make something_ of this, or anything else that Nepeta was implying with her stupid matchmaker impulses. That girl is crazy; she needs to learn that people aren’t her little dolls to smash together into fake ass kisses whenever she wants. Karkat doesn’t know why he hangs out with her.

(It could be because she’s really smart and gives good advice. She was extremely good about handling when Karkat turned _her_ down all those years ago, so maybe she can give him some pointers.)

He very carefully sets his empty mug on the coffee table. He doesn’t know why he brought it out; it was just something to hold and stabilize him so he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels. “So,” Karkat begins, swallowing past his oppressively dry throat.

“Yeah?” Dave asks, invitingly unhelpful.

“So. Uh.” He’s pretty sure he hears Dave snicker, and tosses a scowl at him, but all he sees is a patient barely-there smile. There’s a freckle that’s slightly darker than the rest just above Dave’s lip, like a Monroe piercing. It’s almost a beauty mark, inasmuch as anything can be considered a beauty mark on a body covered head-to-toe in expansive copper-caramel galaxies painting an inverse sky of alabaster. Wait, holy shit, what was he thinking again? “About. About what I said earlier.” He is pretty sure that’s what he was going to say.

Dave waves a hand, almost flippant. “Don’t worry about it, man. You were stressed, I get it. We’re cool.”

Fuck. “Alright,” Karkat hedges, staring at his fingernails and picking nervously at the polish, chipping away at the black over his thumb. “And, uh.” Dave hums in acknowledgement, prompting. “What happened after that.” Dave hums again, quieter. Shier. “Would it be okay if we didn’t make a big deal about it?”

He catches Dave’s face twitch, then misses what happens next because Dave is turning away, shoulder lifting almost effortlessly to mask whatever expression comes involuntarily over his face. Karkat leans forward against his better will because he can’t repress the desire to know what it is. “Yeah, that’s fine dude. Don’t worry, I won’t bring it up. Like it never happened,” Dave says, totally cool.

Karkat’s back straightens. “What the fuck.”

Dave’s face turns a few inches until he can see it again. He sees a sliver of Dave’s actual eye, peeking out the open side of his sunglasses. “What? You literally just asked—”

“Not what I meant,” Karkat says with conviction.

“Enlighten me,” Dave says without missing a beat.

“Not making a big deal out of it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Karkat says peaceably, ignoring the way his palms are cold with sweat. “It didn’t mean anything you don’t want it to, though.” That sounds… weirdly ambiguous, and also: not what Karkat is trying to say. “I’m just, I’m trying to.” Fuck. Why is being sincere hard? He gives up, blurting out, “I don’t even know if you’re _gay_.”

Dave whirls around, and for a second Karkat thinks he’s going to get punched. Instead, he looks at Dave’s face, incredulous, and his long limbs, one arm draped over the back of the couch while he sits on a foot, the other hanging onto the floor. “What do you mean, ‘don’t know if I’m gay’? Holy shit, of _course_ I’m gay.”

Karkat blinks, and opens his mouth, and pauses, because he didn’t expect that kind of reaction. He doesn’t want to show any kind of excitement though, so he tries to keep the upper hand and says, “Dave, you fucking said ‘no homo’ to me like eight times since we met.”

His lips purse. Karkat imagines his eyes flicking down, freckled eyelids lowering in thought, long white lashes brushing the front of his shades what the fuck is wrong with you Karkat, stop this. “I guess I don’t have an excuse for that,” Dave eventually says. “Mostly I just think it’s funny, and also don’t want to get the shit beat out of me if I’m too queer at the wrong guy.”

Arching an eyebrow, Karkat says, “You think I could beat anyone up?” It’s not self deprecating. He knows his limits. He also knows he’s five-foot-three. Karkat is capable of punching someone in the nose and booking it, but actual ass kicking is a bit beyond his skillset.

“Look,” Dave says flatly. Karkat snorts.

“I’m listening.”

“ _Look_ ,” Dave stresses, squeezing the corners of his mouth down as he tries not to smile.

“Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure your shitty poker face has given up and you should just stop trying already,” Karkat says, hoping his intentions aren’t obvious.

“Is that what you think, huh.”

Karkat rests his chin on his palm. “Yeah, it is. You are way more transparent than you think.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dave huffs. He still isn’t squashing the smile completely. It’s cute that he still tries.

“I do,” Karkat says. “I couldn’t repress my feelings about the mismatching patterns on someone’s pajamas even under the tenderest interrogation method. If you asked me to think of a number between one and one hundred and then ordered me not to tell you what it was, I’d say you could go fuck yourself with exactly five iterations of the number seven.”

Dave laughs. “Dude, you’re too much.”

“You have like eight desks in your house and you’re trying to tell me what’s too much? I don’t think I’ve ever owned this much furniture in my _life_.”

“I’ve got a thing about filling up space,” Dave says. “The apartment I grew up in was about half this size and sometimes the extra room made me feel twitchy.”

“You’re like a gerbil that’s spent its entire life in a single level critter trail,” Karkat says, almost mournfully.

Pausing, Dave says, “Don’t bring your weird animal fetish into this.”

“How about _you_ don’t pervert my completely pure-intentioned empathy for our non-human cousins?”

He snickers again, and Karkat betrays himself by thinking he likes Dave’s laughter a lot more than he likes seeing him miserable. Karkat genuinely isn’t sure why it took him so long to figure that out, but there it is. “Sorry, ‘kat, perversion is kind of just a thing that I do. Nothing is allowed to be pure or wholesome in my presence, ‘m like Stitch from that one Disney movie about the blue alien—”

“Oh my god you absolute shitwheel, I saw Lilo and Stitch, I don’t need a goddamn explanation.” Did Dave just call him ‘Kat?’ Usually Karkat hates that shit. Nepeta gets away with it because she’s Nepeta, and Terezi certainly got away with some… interesting nicknames, but usually he bites people’s heads off when they muster up the audacity.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, but the question is: can we literally watch Lilo and Stitch right now?” Dave asks, bouncing on the futon a little in something Karkat refuses to believe is excitement, because if it was excitement that would be cute and Dave is not cute.

Karkat eyes him warily. “Don’t tell me you actually own that movie.”

“All the original video cassette tapes, bitch.”

“No. You don’t.”

Dave is already launching himself up and rummaging in a closed storage cabinet on their right, because he wasn’t fucking around with needing to fill space. Hm. He’ll need to organize before a cat would be safe in here, just because of the clutter, Karkat’s not sure how Dumpling would handle all the extra space even if she’s used to jumping up on the counter at the store after-hours. Before Karkat can go too far with his musing, Dave withdraws a large box from the cabinet and true to his word there’s at least twenty VHS tapes in there, all different animated movies, though not all of them Disney.

Karkat spies one in particular and picks it up. “We’re watching this one.”

Shifting the box in his arms, Dave cranes his neck to see what Karkat picked. “...Anastasia?”

“Yeah,” Karkat says, holding the movie almost tenderly. “My dad and I watched this together. It meant a lot to me after he, uh… died, I guess.” He doesn’t guess. His dad really died, and he watched this movie five million times and cried to it all through foster care. “The romance was also quality,” he says hurriedly. “I get really fucked up by couples who start out hating each other and coming out the ass end of the story genuinely liking one another.”

Dave eyes him, a smile curving the corner of his mouth. “Do you, now.”

It takes Karkat a second. There’s so much he could fucking say and nothing that seems right, so he turns his face away and doesn’t quite hide his smile.

Aside from teasing Dave a bit about having a VHS player still, Karkat doesn’t talk much, although Dave rambles throughout the movie. It’s a very gentle stream of consciousness commentary, though, and it even makes Karkat laugh in a few places, so he doesn’t eviscerate Dave for interrupting. It doesn’t ruin it. Karkat’s seen it so many times that the quips almost enhance it. Dave’s funny, and when he’s not awkwardly losing his shit he’s almost graceful with his verbal shitposting.

Karkat doesn’t realize the implications of Dave not tripping over himself around him until the credits are rolling, ‘At the Beginning’ is playing, and he notices that they’re so close to each other on the futon that their thighs are almost brushing. When the fuck did that happen?

When Karkat lifts his head, Dave is looking at him. Their faces are a little too close for their status as not friends.

“Hey,” Karkat says, voice husky. He doesn’t know why he’s almost whispering.

“Hey,” Dave murmurs back.

“I, uh,” Karkat fumbles, eyes flicking over the planes of Dave’s face. “I think I made a mistake earlier.”

Dave’s lip quirks. “Yeah?”

“I dislike you a lot less than originally advertised.”

His laugh is a breathy gust that Karkat _feels_ , and something churns in his belly that he can’t identify. “Believe it or not,” Dave says, low and smooth, “I kinda got that impression.”

Karkat elbows him lightly, and absolutely is not blushing. “Shut up.”

“Somewhere down the line there was a very subtle hint—” Dave continues, then laughs again as Karkat shoves him a little harder. He flows through the gesture and Karkat is amazed at how fluid he is when he isn’t strung up in his own ribcage, choked with anxiety and loneliness. Dave’s cheekbone is full and lit in the TV light, the rest of his face shadowed by the room’s late night darkness. Karkat gives in and crosses the distance, setting his lips very lightly against Dave’s cheek, as if to make up for his roughness earlier. Dave goes suddenly still.

When Karkat pulls away, Dave shifts to face him, turning his entire body. Opening up. Karkat watches him in the low light of the darkening credits and hazards a small, hopeful smile.

* * *

CG: HEY, NEPETA?

— AC is idle! —

CG: FUCK OKAY, DON’T GET UP ON MY BEHALF. I WAS JUST WONDERING IF SOME TIME WE COULD MEET UP AGAIN AND YOU COULD CUT MY HAIR, THAT’S ALL. TALK TO YOU TOMORROW.

— AC is available! —

AC: >:33


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks! it's a double event today! first you obviously get this chapter, but you ALSO get the first of the side fics! there will be at least five side stories that accompany the main fic. all are canon. most of them are post-fic, but this one takes place a week after chapter 8, and three days before chapter 9 (this one). you should be able to find it in the new series posted for this fic, but [here's the link](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6681952).
> 
> be sure to carefully read the notes before jumping into the side fic, and if you have any questions of course you can ask me. 
> 
> this chapter is a bit of an emotional doozy, so brace yourselves and get ready for the ride. thanks everyone for reading!

“Where the fuck are you?”

Dave shifts his phone in his hand, rolling his weight onto the balls of his feet. “I’m in bed sick,” he says, and punctuates it with a very delicate cough.

On the other end, Karkat breathes a displeased huff through his nostrils. “How did you fucking get sick?” he asks, not whining at all but Dave hears the petulance anyway. It’s kind of nice, actually, so he plays up the next cough.

“It was all the bus trips I took in the dead of winter to come visit you,” he says melodramatically, keeping his voice breathy and weak.

“Fuck you,” Karkat snaps.

To his credit Dave doesn’t laugh, but it’s a huge struggle. “Wow. See if I risk pneumonia for your ungrateful ass ever again.” He waits for Karkat’s reaction, but Karkat is squinting at his phone suspiciously instead of acknowledging what Dave said.

“Is there something wrong with your phone?” he asks. “I keep hearing—”

Dave clears his throat again, loudly. “An echo?” he says, stepping audibly closer. “Yeah.” He makes eye contact with Karkat from across the store and is lucky he doesn’t get a phone thrown at him. Karkat hangs up when he sees him, and Dave barely has time to hold up his hands in surrender as Karkat storms toward him, a scowl etched on his face.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

He smirks. “I mean, maybe.” Karkat fists a hand in Dave’s shirt, pulling him down an inch or two so Karkat can frown closer to his face.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Visiting you,” Dave says, crossing his arms over his chest like Karkat doesn’t have his shirt wrapped around his hand, tugged away from Dave’s pale, freckled chest. He’s still wearing just a single shirt and jacket, which makes it genuinely surprising that he is only faking being sick instead of living it. “A second ago you were complaining that I wasn’t here, bro,” he continues. “I’m all confused now.”

Not indulging that with a response, Karkat instead narrows his eyes as he inspects Dave. “You aren’t really sick are you?” he asks, distrustful.

“Nah,” Dave says easily, dropping his hands and switching to shoving them in his pockets as Karkat’s grip on him loosens.

“Good,” says Karkat, and tugs him until he can catch behind Dave’s neck. Dave bends the rest of the way down, obliging as Karkat pushes himself up to kiss him. He doesn’t think Karkat has noticed yet that Dave is still too nervous to initiate contact with him, even after over a week of eagerly subjecting himself to Karkat’s whims, which are insistent and often come at really confusing times. Dave is prepped and ready this time, though, and indulges him with a soft and wanting mouth. Karkat pulls back after a bit, voice gruff as he mumbles, “Happy birthday, assface.”

Dave knocks their foreheads together for a fraction of a second before straightening up, breathing out a silent laugh. “Thanks, dude.”

Karkat surveys him with something that’s almost a smile and then clears his throat, glancing away. “How the fuck did you even get in here without me noticing?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Dave responds. “I’m a fucking ninja.”

“A shitty ninja,” Karkat says automatically, “Who is also terrible and gay.”

“There’s one part of that I won’t argue with,” Dave quips, smirking.

“Hmmm,” hums Karkat, and Dave meets him halfway when he leans up for another kiss.

Someone clears their throat behind them. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I don’t mean to interrupt but—” Karkat whirls around so fast he almost takes Dave’s lips with him.

“OhmygodMr.KulkarniI’msofuckingsorryIdidn’tmeanto—” At least, that’s what Dave is pretty sure he says, because what he thinks actually happens is a mash of incoherent syllables exploding from Karkat’s face in the span of two seconds. He falls silent when his boss holds up a hand to stop him, then turns beet red and hangs a left, shooting down the aisle where he’s going to, presumably, curl up in the fetal position behind the counter.

Dave looks back at the older Indian dude and wracks his brain for a memory of Karkat mentioning the guy’s name. “Hey,” he says, when he can’t summon any such thing. “I’m Dave.”

“We’ve met,” the guy says. “Ajit Kulkarni,” he says, extending his hand for a shake. Dave doesn’t want to be rude, but he feels awkward literally the entire second and a half his palm is touching Ajit’s.

“Oh yeah,” Dave says, recalling the ferret incident. “Fortunately there’s no ferrets this time.”

Ajit raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment on that, or acknowledge what he walked in on. “I’ve seen you here quite a bit, Dave,” he says. “Do you have many pets?”

“Naw,” he says, waving a hand. “I just like pestering Karkat about the adoption.” It comes out without him thinking—rather, he figured it was a neutral enough topic that he wouldn’t have to explain why he was sucking face with Ajit’s employee, until he remembers that adoptions usually don’t take an entire month to go through.

As predicted, Ajit’s face turns confused. “I haven’t signed any paperwork about a discharge,” he says. “Why has it taken so long to complete after I approved the application?”

Dave panics, scrambling for an explanation. In all truth, they haven’t discussed the adoption at all since Karkat came to stay with him. It’s become a stalemate of sorts, while Dave waits for Karkat to say something about the results of the background check and whether or not it’s gonna pick up on all the murders and attempts at armed robbery. Those 99 cent vinyls were super worth it, though. Not a scratch, even after the explosion. Uh. “Weeeell, there was a problem with my, um, apartment?” Yeah, okay. Keep going. “And Karkat had to re-evaluate my suitability and then I had to fix some stuff up, all my fault, don’t worry, but I’m still planning on going through with it, don’ worry, jus’ waitin’ on the final repairs to be complete, y’know how it is—”

“I see,” Ajit says. “Well, I wish you luck. In the meanwhile,” he trails off, looking at the counter. Surprisingly, there’s no sounds of mournful wailing or clothes being rended, so Dave hopes that Karkat’s doing okay. “I have to go talk to my employee,” he finishes.

Ajit takes two steps and then Dave chokes out, “Wait.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder in question. “He’s not in trouble, is he?” Dave asks hurriedly, face going hot and red. “Cuz that was like, totally my fault, he didn’t— I can stop comin’ here, if you don’t want me distracting him, like…” He fists his hands to keep them from shaking.

“Dave,” Ajit says slowly, turning a bit to face him again. “Karkat is bar none the best worker I’ve ever employed here. He gives most of his time to this store and doesn’t complain about the hours or the workload, and saves me litres of daily trouble with his competence. I realize he’s not the perfect model of professionalism, but business hasn’t been impacted, so I have trouble motivating myself to do anything about it.” Clearing his throat, he turns away and starts down the aisle again. “Just make sure no customers see you.”

He’s so shell shocked that he doesn’t manage to respond, but Ajit probably didn’t need to hear one, anyway. After standing in one place like an idiot for almost a minute, Dave compels his body to move, feet taking him into the next aisle so he doesn’t pass Ajit again, coming from the side of the register that’s blocked by the ferret cage. He’s planning on saying goodbye to Karkat once they’re talking and then leaving so they can skip the awkward ‘being caught’ dance, but Karkat’s on the phone, and Ajit is looking just as decentered as Dave feels.

“Is this the supervisor finally?” Karkat growls into the phone, his eyes flicking to Ajit before he frowns back down at the paper in front of him. “Yes, I’ve been waiting for you to call me back since yesterday, and I don’t appreciate that I had to follow up for you— Yeah, well, we’re all busy. Cry me a river. Look: Wednesday’s shipment was unacceptable. What? Yes, this is Tank Time, owned by Ajit Kulkarni—” Karkat glances at Ajit again, unsure. “Yes, it’s a private business, not a chain. Look, that’s not important, you should have our address on file. It’s on— yeah, okay. Look. Listen. I have a standard to uphold. I have customers, just like you guys do, who expect a certain level of _quality_ from the wares we sell. The large feeders you sent us were barely bigger than the small comet goldfish. I wouldn’t even call these medium. No, I— I have pictures, don’t act like you personally oversaw this shipment. My customers come from all around the county expecting healthy, _size appropriate_ feeder fish for their pets, and I don’t know how you expect me to sit here and sell them this subpar merchandise with a straight face. They’re half the size you usually send!”

He throws a hand up in the air, and Dave covers his mouth. Holy shit. His boss is right there, even. He can only see the back of Ajit’s head and thus can’t gauge his expression, but he wonders what the man is thinking.

“If you _knew_ that your stock was not up to standard, it’s on your company to compensate your clients for the mistake. I get that, sir, with animals there are no constants, but that isn’t my problem and it certainly isn’t my customers’ problem. I can’t charge thirty cents for these fish. I can’t even charge twenty-five cents for these fish, they’re barely bigger than the fifteen cent ones. Yeah? Well it’s too late, the damage has already been done, and I wouldn’t want to be running your company when the rest of your clients notice your slipping quality. I patronize your business because you set a standard that you’re now refusing to meet, so either give me a discount on my next order to compensate from the money we’re going to lose by dropping the price on these so-called ‘large’ feeders, or you can kiss Tank Time’s business goodbye. Unless you think I should call that vendor you just mentioned up to check those accusations with them that the lacking quality of this batch is their fault— no? Hmmm, yeah, twenty percent sounds fine. I’ll inform my manager to look for it on the next bill. Thanks for your patie— Damn, this fucker just seriously hung up on me,” Karkat says, scowling at the phone.

It takes all of Dave’s power not to slow clap. Let it never be said that Karkat Vantas takes anything in the way of shit, except from maybe his boss, which…

“Thank you for protecting the quality of our product, Karkat,” Ajit says as Karkat walks back to the cradle to hang up the phone (he was pacing around the cashwrap during the whole rant). “If you don’t mind, could we hold the next call so I can speak with you for a moment?”

Karkat ‘Take no shit’ Vantas actually looks scared for once, but Dave, safely out of Ajit’s view, waves his hand to get Karkat’s attention, peeking silently out from around the ferret cage. He gives a double thumbs up and mouths ‘it’s okay’ at him, gesturing at Ajit and making a ‘don’t worry about it’ motion. Karkat scrunches his brows dubiously, and then gives a barely perceptible nod. “Yeah,” he says, turning his face toward Ajit even though his eyes keep twitching back to Dave. “What’s up?”

Dave makes the signal for ‘a-ok’ on one hand, then jerks his thumb at the door. ‘I’m gonna go,’ he mouths, stepping backwards toward the exit to indicate his intention. Karkat’s eyes follow him before snapping back to Ajit, who has (obliviously) started to talk.

Only hanging around for a second longer to determine it is in fact not a big deal—sounds just like business bullshit—Dave finally does slip out the door, breathing a deep sigh of relief the moment the cold air hits his face.

* * *

Karkat gets home late again, though he texts him this time. It hasn’t even been two weeks, so Dave reprimands himself for thinking of the apartment as _Karkat’s_ home, because it’s just a transient space for him, until he can find a better apartment. It only has one room, anyway, and Dave can’t sleep on the couch forever. Obviously.

‘ **Nepeta picked me up I’ll be in late** ’ he texts. Dave sits on the couch and fidgets, trying to figure out how to fill the time. He’s already finished his livestream, and got a bunch of extra donations and shit on account of it being his birthday. He’s tired of the internet now, and doesn’t know how he spent all his day fucking around on it before. Before there was someone else in his apartment to bother, before he had somewhere to go every day.

Huh.

Dave nervously reaches for his phone, running his fingers around the case. He hasn’t tried this in weeks, but it’s his birthday, and… Rose hasn’t said anything yet. He knows he’s empty handed. Karkat still hasn’t approved the adoption; they just stopped fighting about it entirely. Dave doesn’t know if Karkat will give in eventually, but until then, he assumes Rose will still be mad at him. Part of him is secretly hurt that she’d shut him out indefinitely over a fucking cat, no matter how much she loved Jaspers. Dave is her _brother_.

He hypes himself up and pulls up her contact, looking at the picture of them together, neither of them looking at the camera but caught in a rare moment of mutual laughter. Kanaya sent it to him. Dave screws up his mouth, feeling vulnerable just looking at how his sister fit against his side with his arm around her. They don’t touch much and it was kind of a fluke, the half-hug as it coincided with a particularly witty joke, though he doesn’t remember who told it.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Dave hits the call button. He holds his breath all the way through the ringing, all the way to the voicemail message. ‘Good evening, or any variant thereof, you’ve reached the cell phone of one very absent Rose Lalonde—’ Dave hangs up.

Then he gets his shoes.

He doesn’t take the bus to Rose’s house, though sometimes she makes him take a cab. It’s fifteen minutes away on foot and barely three minutes driving. She lives on the top floor of a duplex; the lower apartment is inhabited by three pretty radical deaf folks. Two dudes and a lady almost as pale as Dave himself; they’re part of some housing program that placed them there, and they all get along pretty radically, talking in rapid sign language with each other. The lady and one of the men don’t really seem inclined to translate for or interact with Dave when he visits, but sometimes he catches Winfred in the garden when he’s crossing through the back to Rose’s door.

Winfred Vivas is a short, dark man with smiling eyes, and he can read Dave’s lips and vocalize what he’s saying with his hands. Dave brings him drawings sometimes. He’s a really cool guy.

Dave doesn’t run into him this time, though. Aside from catching the woman—Petra, he thinks her name was—peeking suspiciously out at him through a curtain, Dave doesn’t see anyone. He understands why when he gets to the back and sees a note on the door.

**Dear visitor,**

**I regret to inform you that I am out of the state at the moment. Please leave any packages up front, with my downstairs neighbors, and feel free to return some time after December 10th, when I’m slotted to return.**

**Regards,**

**Rose Lalonde**

For several minutes, Dave doesn’t know what to think, or do. He stands at the door until someone thumps on the window next to him. Jumping, he looks up, seeing the other man, the one who’s kind of actively hostile to visitors. He makes a ‘get the fuck out’ gesture that Dave doesn’t need an interpreter for, and although he supposes they’d have trouble calling 911 on him, he doesn’t want to tempt fate especially if Rose isn’t around.

Dave leaves, hands stuffed in his pockets, chest feeling oddly cold in a way that has nothing to do with the early December chill.

She left town without messaging him. She left town without telling him she’d be gone for their birthdays. It's no twenty-first drunken bonanza, but twenty is still the ascension from teen hell and... She left town without making up or forgiving him or _anything_ , not even a threatening message written in pig blood. He feels like shit. He feels abandoned, and he can’t even message Kanaya about it because he suspects they went together, and they might make good on their promise to block him if he tries it.

He walks with his hands in his pockets, brooding, until his phone rings. Despite himself he gets excited, yanking his phone out of his pocket, and that feeling is only dampened a tiny bit when he sees it’s not Rose, but Karkat.

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Deja vu, man, aren’t you sick of wondering where I am yet?”

He can practically hear Karkat rolling his eyes. “Aren’t you done not being where you’re supposed to be?”

“Where am I supposed to be?” Dave wonders, not mentioning that he was exactly where Karkat wanted him at the time of the first phone call, even if he was fucking with him a little.

“At the fucking apartment? Where else would you be. I forgot the key on the kitchen table and I’m locked out, so get your ass up and let me in.”

Snorting, Dave says, “Got some bad news for you, bro. I’m at least ten minutes away right now.”

Karkat groans, long and loud. “Since when do you leave the apartment?”

“Fuck off, I go outside all the time.”

“Only when you’re harassing me. Who are you harassing now?”

“Chill out, dude, I’m not harass-cheating on you. I went to see my sister.”

Pausing, Karkat asks warily, “How’d it go?”

At some point, Dave let it slip that she wasn’t talking to him, though he doesn’t exactly remember when. “She’s out of town, apparently,” he says, feeling helpless. “She’ll be back on the tenth.”

There’s silence, and then an incredulous sound. “She’s missing your fucking birthday?”

“Looks like it.”

“Did she at least call?”

“Nope. Prob’ly forgot,” whether accidentally or on purpose, he doesn’t say or bother speculating on.

“Forgot her own brother’s birthday?!”

“Yeah,” Dave says, then rolls his neck. “Look dude, I’m gonna hang up, I gotta get this existential crisis out sooner rather than later. I’ll see you in about ten minutes, aight? Don’t freeze to death.”

Karkat grumbles, but acquiesces. “I’ll try.”

“Cool,” Dave says, then hangs up.

Fucking sigh.

Contrary to what he said, he doesn't actually have much of a crisis on the rest of the way there. He’s somewhere between resigned and realistic. It is entirely possible that Rose is in an area without service, or just got intensely wrapped up in something like she does sometimes and will call him tomorrow, or in a few days, or even later tonight to make up for the earlier infraction. Rose can be passive aggressive and petty but he’s sure she can’t lock him out forever.

He’s bullied himself into a slightly better mood by the time he gets to the building. Karkat isn’t an icicle outside, so Dave assumes that he managed to bribe his way inside. True to his expectations, he climbs the stairs to find Karkat balled up in front of the apartment door, staring at his phone. “Sup,” Dave says.

“That was eleven minutes,” Karkat says.

“I’m sorry for my betrayal. I offer you my left hand as penance.”

“Fuck no,” Karkat says, scowling at him. “I don’t know what you’ve touched with that thing.”

“Probably for the best,” Dave says, then kicks him lightly in the hip. “Move so I can unlock the door, doofus.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” says Karkat as he rolls out of the way, climbing to his feet.

Snorting, Dave unlocks the apartment and pushes the door open. He gestures inside. “My queen.”

“Watch it,” Karkat says, slipping past him and heading straight for the bathroom.

Dave’s messing around trying to organize the area around the futon when he comes out, but he gets another sense of deja vu when Karkat pauses in the middle of the living room and stares at him, eyebrows drawn in like—

Wait, holy shit.

“You cut your hair?”

Holy _shit_.

Karkat’s face goes a bit red and he grimaces at the mixing desk. “Yeah, Nepeta suggested it when I was over, Equius was trimming her hair and it just seemed convenient,” he says in a voice that is so deliberately careful that Dave is ninety-six percent sure that wasn’t how it happened at all. He doesn’t challenge him on it. His stupid little piercing is visible below his cropped bangs, and although it still looks puffy and crazy, the curls are easier to see when they're not snarling around his ears, instead kind of haloing him just so, and damn.

This fucking loser looks _good_. Like, Dave guessed after a while that he was attracted to him, but that was kind of a— He knew he wasn’t ugly, but Karkat is... stealth hot.

Holy shit times three.

“Stop staring,” Karkat snaps.

“Everyone can see your Hot Topic jewellery now,” Dave says sappily.

“I hate you,” grumbles Karkat.

Dave swoops in like an owl on a soft, vulnerable mouse and ignores the squeak of indignation when he presses a quick peck to Karkat’s now exposed forehead. “You look great, ‘kat,” he says, tilting his head to the side like he’s inviting a punch.

Karkat just goes even more red and stares at their feet, which are way too close. Dave shifts back an inch or two. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Hungry?” Dave asks, tossing his head toward the kitchen. He’s hyper aware of his own bangs, which flop with the movement. Usually Rose cuts his hair, but he’s not going to think about that. Dave knows how to trim his own bangs.

“Not right now,” Karkat says. “I ate at Nepeta’s.”

Dave pauses. Karkat’s eyeballing the door to Dave’s room again, looking like he’s about to bolt. Dave doesn’t know if Karkat didn’t get what he wanted, or if he did and doesn’t know how to handle it. Judging from experience it’s probably the latter. He doesn’t know what to say to make Karkat stay, but he does know that he doesn’t want him to go just yet. “Hey,” he says, even though he doesn’t have a follow-up planned. Karkat’s eyes snap back to him, expectant. “Uh, do you wanna…”

Eyebrows creeping up his forehead, Karkat shifts his weight until he’s rocked completely back onto his heels, then drops so he’s flat on his feet again. “Wanna…?” he parrots.

“...go swimming?” Dave asks, then winces.

Karkat looks around the apartment. They aren’t by a window, so it’s a useless gesture, but Dave knows what he’s thinking. “It’s December,” Karkat says.

Dave clears his throat, finds the inside of his mouth sticky and dry. “The apartment building has an indoor pool.”

Karkat blinks very slowly. “I don’t have a bathing suit.”

That actually seems like a plausible roadblock, until Dave remembers— “John left his last time he visited,” he says. “You can wear that.”

“Who’s John?”

Huh. “My best friend. He lives in Seattle. Whad'ya say?”

“Well,” Karkat says, face crumpling in thought. “I guess my day can’t get any weirder.”

“Especially not after this morning,” Dave snickers.

“We’re not gonna talk about that,” says Karkat, firmly. “Get me the bathing suit.”

* * *

“Well this is disappointing,” notes Dave of the giant sign attached to the tape around the pool. ‘CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE’ it says, and both Dave and Karkat exchange looks. “We could shower together—” Dave jokes, and is cut off by Karkat elbowing him in the stomach.

“No decency,” Karkat says, sounding scandalized. “I walked down all those stairs for nothing.”

“Stop complaining,” Dave says, surveying the abandoned recreational room. There’s a couple people working out that he can see through the glass partition that separates the pool from the exercise equipment. “Look, hey. The hot tub’s still running.”

“That’s a _way_ better idea than swimming in a cold pool,” Karkat comments.

“Shut up,” says Dave, and pulls his shirt off. He pretends Karkat isn’t looking at him as he does it, pretends he isn’t preening about it when he drops his towel and kicks off his sandals. With a little bounce he jumps into the hot tub, then goes on to pretend his skin isn’t being scalded. He turns around and obviously is making a pained face, because Karkat coughs out a nasty little laugh. “Aren’t you gonna get in?” Dave asks, ignoring it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Karkat says, and takes off his shoes. He folds his towel on top of them, like a nerd, and then… dang, he takes off his t-shirt. Dave has never seen Karkat shirtless before, even though they’ve gotten a few kisses in that were a little more intense than pecks and involved a little more skin than not. Then Karkat straightens, and Dave thinks ‘holy shit’ directly related to Karkat for the fourth time that night.

“You have nipple piercings?” Dave doesn’t know how he missed that before, but he regrets it intensely. (He wants to put his mouth on it, oh god.)

“Piercing,” Karkat corrects, and today is deja vu day, because—

“Why do you only have one of each?”

Karkat smirks, then slowly starts to ease himself into the water. “For my 20th birthday, my best friend sent me money to get piercings. He’s obsessed with symmetry, so he insisted that I had to get two of something.”

“So to spite him, you got one eyebrow piercing and one nipple piercing?”

Shrugging, Karkat nods. “Yeah.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Yep.” As he slides into the water, Dave also notices he has a circle of tiny red stars around his other, unpierced nipple, and what looks like a constellation on his bicep framed by a couple strings of numbers. He’s getting the impression that Karkat likes stars.

“What’re the tattoos, then?” he asks, nodding to them just as Karkat’s chest disappears under the water, hiding them. Karkat pushes himself back up, so his nipples are exposed again. “I got this one on a dare,” he says, touching the red stars encircling his areola. “My ex girlfriend put money down that I wouldn’t.”

“And you did.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You’re way more contrary than I initially realized,” Dave observes, smiling faintly. “And I knew you were pretty goddamn contrary from the start. What’s the other one?” Karkat freezes, and that’s the exact moment Dave connects that those strings of numbers he saw were _dates_. “Um,” he says hurriedly, “you don’t have to—”

“My dad liked stars,” Karkat says, cutting him off. He’s staring blankly into the water, not at Dave, but not exactly… away, either. “He was into everything to do with it. He liked astrology and was really geeked out that I was born a Cancer, because he was one too, and that’s what the constellation is. He even had a really expensive telescope, which he left to me after he, uh. Passed away.”

Something about that statement seems off to Dave. He’s seen all Karkat’s stuff, and there wasn’t a telescope anywhere in—

Oh. No. “Someone stole it when they kicked you out,” he says, surprised at how much the thought is affecting him.

Karkat swallows audibly. “Yeah. Someone did.”

Dave rubs a wet hand over his face, smearing his bangs back. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, ‘kat.”

Following his example, Karkat pushes his own hair back, then gives Dave a sidelong look. “You don’t have to be sorry. Like, I know it’s typical and annoying to say when someone apologizes for a situation, like oh, it’s not your fault, well no shit it isn’t but they still feel bad for you, but you shouldn’t. Feel bad.” He puts a finger in his mouth, chewing on some dry skin. “You’re kind of the best thing I got going for me right now, so.”

It punches him in the heart with more force than an actual punch would (and Dave’s been punched before, but he doesn’t think about that). He doesn’t know what to say, and so instead, he cautiously pushes himself up and glides through the water until he is perched awkwardly on the space between two seats, right next to the one Karkat is sitting in. It’s weird with him half out of the water and Karkat in up to his neck, which Karkat notices. He scoots over, tugging Dave by the elbow until Dave ends up sliding into the seat, his hip slipping below Karkat’s. A second later Karkat relaxes his limbs, settling down so he’s half perched on Dave’s lap and half hovering in the water.

Karkat gives him a speculative look, as if gauging if the arrangement is alright. Dave swallows, licks his lips, and very carefully winds an arm around Karkat’s back. Their foreheads touch. For a while, they don’t talk.

“Do you remember when you got your first chain email?” Karkat asks, completely randomly.

Dave lifts his head. “What?” He processes what Karkat says, confirming that is in fact what he heard, and says, “No, I guess I don’t. Why?”

Karkat takes a long breath. “My dad got cancer when I was ten years old. Throat cancer, weirdly enough, though he never smoked or anything. He’d done some voice acting for like, kid’s cartoons? And had to stop because of it. I was so fucking scared of losing him, but three years later doctors said he’d probably survive.”

“I mean, he… didn’t, right?” Dave asks, squinting. He’s wondering if this is related to one of those emails that purported to have the cure for cancer in flying to China and not drinking milk or something.

“He definitely died, but it wasn’t from cancer,” Karkat says. Dave doesn’t speak; he just waits. Karkat takes a shuddering breath, presses his head into Dave’s shoulder, and continues. “I got an email address when I was twelve, and didn’t really have many thing to use it for, but eventually I amassed a small collection of fuckheads to be friends with, and one day someone sent me one of those shitty urban legend chain emails that promises to kill your family if you don’t forward it.”

“Your dad did _not_ die of a chain email,” Dave says, incredulous.

“Shut up and let me finish,” Karkat snaps. Dave instantly obeys. “I deleted it, and nothing happened. Weeks later, I had a nightmare and woke my dad up hysterical, convinced everyone around me was gonna die because of this fucking chain email I didn’t forward to everyone on my friend’s list.”

“Right,” Dave says, rubbing his arm a bit.

His lips twist dubiously, then he sighs. “There was a gas leak in the house one day. The kitchen exploded while I was at school.” It’s so blunt and unexpected, even though he knew Karkat was building up to it, that Dave literally cannot breathe for several seconds after Karkat’s voice cuts off. After several moments of silence, he accepts that he has no idea what to fucking say in response to this. Karkat saves him the trouble. “I blamed myself, of all fucking things. Because it was so— fucking out of nowhere. How? How could that just happen? He was making dinner so it’d be ready when I got home, just like any fucking day, and then suddenly he wasn’t fucking there anymore.” Karkat’s voice starts to crack, but he forces through it. “He survived three years of cancer treatment and then one day the _fucking kitchen explodes_ , and I was thirteen, and all I had to justify that even happening was a stupid fucking chain letter I deleted a month prior.”

Dave says nothing, and so he should probably expect what comes next. “How did your brother die?”

His throat ties itself in a knot and Dave thinks if he tries to speak all that’s going to come out is a sob. He does anyway, and what actually issues forth is dry and hollow. “I don’t know.” Karkat’s brow furrows. “Auntie Ro handled all the funeral stuff, including the autopsy. I never asked how he died, and so she never… forced me to hear it, I guess. I suspect it was drugs, though, because otherwise she’d have probably wanted me to know. It was really weird, right, because he didn’t use when I was living with him.”

Karkat reads between the lines. “Did you ever blame yourself?” Dave wants to tell him to fuck off. He really, sorely does. But he sees where this is going, and he looks at the fucked up, emotionally raw person in his lap and can’t find it inside him to refuse.

“Yeah. All the time.”

Then it’s _Karkat_ wrapping his arms around Dave, and if there’s some unusual wetness on his neck and cheeks, Dave doesn’t mention it. Neither of them says anything more as they sit together in the hot tub, hands petting idly until the light flickers to let them know the rec room is closing soon. “We gotta go,” Dave says, his voice a quiet husk. Karkat nods, wordless.

It takes them a bit to pry themselves apart, but they do, and climb out to grab their respective towels. They’re so mutely miserable that Dave struggles in his brain to find a solution as he physically struggles to shove his still-wet torso back into his shirt. Karkat dries himself more thoroughly, then wraps both their wet towels across his shoulders after he’s put his shirt on again. Dave thinks it’s probably to simulate the feeling of that sweater he’s wearing all the time. Safe. Covered.

Karkat hangs back until Dave is ready, and then they walk toward the exit together, not quite touching.

A thought strikes. “Hey, ‘kat?” Karkat hums a question. “You said piercings, plural.”

“What? No, you keep saying I have pierced eyebrows, or pierced nipples. I only have one of each.”

“No, wrong,” Dave says. Karkat looks at him weird, pausing in the doorway. “You said when you first moved in that you had more piercings than just your eyebrow. As in more than one.”

A slow, reluctant smile creeps across Karkat’s features. “I guess you’re right,” he admits, then starts walking.

“What. Hey. Karkat. What.”

Karkat reaches the base of the stairs and breaks into a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i had to send progress clips to my friends of that last scene and laugh at their pained responses to keep MYSELF from crying while writing it.
> 
> to cheer everyone up, i'm doing another drabble giveaway. this time i want people to comment with their theories about the endgame of the fic and/or what they'd like to see happen. i'll pick a favourite based entirely on which comment i like best rather than accuracy, so be as creative or mundane as you want.
> 
> (as a bonus, this chapter has a super, super obscure reference that i guarantee no one is gonna catch. if you do though, you get a drabble too.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before we start this party please appreciate the [tank time dave that my friend drew for me](http://hermitcrabwithwings.tumblr.com/post/144073096233/skreebat-commission-of-dave-strider-for-loft)! 
> 
> !!!
> 
> those freckles, man.....
> 
> (drabble contest winner named at the end of chapter!)

Dave catches him before he makes it up the second flight of stairs, but Karkat has a tactical advantage and whaps him in the face with the wet towels. He makes the most of Dave’s temporary incapacitation and bolts all the way to the apartment door, at which point he realizes Dave has the key in his swim trunks and he’s trapped.

Maybe he doesn’t mind so much, though.

“Put your hands in the air an’ surrender without a fight,” Dave twangs as he ascends the top of the stairs, a towel in each hand like he’s approaching some comical Old West style shoot-out. “We’ve got you surrounded.”

Karkat makes a show of looking around, genuinely searching for Dave’s so-called entourage. “Wow, it seems like your army is nowhere to be found, much like my reason for living,” he deadpans.

He gets a wet towel to the face for his trouble. “No, wrong,” is all Dave says as he unlocks the door to let them in. He’s still holding the other towel in his left hand, so Karkat doesn’t push it because he knows better than to look down the barrel of a loaded gun and call its mom ugly. Or, as it were, make depressing fatalistic jokes in front of the boy who likes him and is making his life slightly easier because of it. (Okay, a lot easier. The kissing helps.) Speaking of kissing, Dave is taking off his shirt again, and Karkat doesn’t remember what he was thinking about anymore.

The attraction hit harder than he was expecting. It swarmed him all at once upon the realisation that, out of every other possible person around him, Dave had become someone he could trust. Now here he goes, swooning all over him while divulging the juicy details of his tragic past. He’d be disgusted with himself if he wasn’t too busy eyeballing Dave’s naked torso.

“God,” Dave says, stretching his shoulders. “I hate being wet.” Karkat smirks slowly, despite himself, but doesn’t say anything. “Y’know, I’m glad we didn’t go swimming. Then I’d have had to wash my hair.” Dave ruffles his fingers through his wild, tightly curled hair. It’s pretty long, Karkat notices, maybe for the first time. “I need to cut it, it’s starting to get unmanageable, and my hair ain’t the type that looks good in a ‘fro, it literally goes all over the place and starts attacking people, an’ I can’t even deny it was me, ‘cuz who else has white ass fuckin’ hair?” He disappears into the bathroom, still talking about nothing, and comes out a minute later wearing sweatpants, sans bathing suit. “Dude, take off your shit, go hang it up in the shower with your towel. Just looking at you standing there dripping on the carpet is making me uncomfortable.”

Karkat looks down. Dave isn’t wrong: he is, in fact, dripping down his legs onto the carpet. Huh. “Don’t tell me what to do,” Karkat says. “Maybe I like being soaked and terrible.” It’s all for show, because he doesn’t actually, so he goes into his room—er, that is, Dave’s room. Not his. He’s just borrowing it—and changes out of the wet bathing suit and his damp tee, switching into a pair of old and worn jeans and a baggy shirt, the sleeves so long they cover half his hands.

He’s warm inside from the hot water, and wearing comfortable things outside. Despite it being universally horrible to talk about his dead father, Karkat feels cathartically cleansed. At least now it’s out of the way. There’s not much more they can say about their respective guardians, and even though Karkat is paranoid and precious about his personal information, it feels nice to let someone know. His inner demons are quieted. In other words: it would be absolutely, disastrously dangerous to go out and be around people right now, even the exact person who enabled him into feeling so good in the first place.

Chewing his lip, Karkat deliberates. Active discomfort and aggression is how he navigates most of his life, even around people he likes. He’s painfully aware of that. He’s also aware that his rare moments of happiness engender a vulnerability he hates revealing in himself. Karkat’s soft squishy underbelly is a map to his own personal city of gold and no one is plundering _those_ riches today, or ever, thank you.

Which is why it’s so weird that when he goes to lock the door to his (no, Dave’s) room, Karkat ends up twisting the knob instead, letting himself out.

He hangs up the borrowed swim trunks like Dave told him to, next to Dave’s trunks and the towels that Dave has already strung over the curtain rod. “What the fuck am I doing,” Karkat asks himself aloud, staring through the clear shower curtain (it has cartoons of sushi rolls on it, what the fuck) at the tile wall.

“No clue, man. You’ve been in here for five minutes.”

Dave is reclining against the doorjamb, still shirtless, leaning lazily, and. Smiling. This heartbreakingly small, uneven tilt of lips. He even has freckles there, a few on his upper lip and one big one on the bottom, which is full and soft, Karkat knows from experience, especially when it’s moving from his mouth to his throat. Especially when they break away to breathe and Dave nuzzles behind Karkat’s ear, laughing softly.

Karkat still remembers the first time he ever heard Dave laugh.

And so, he smiles back.

“I was just thinking.”

“Oh yeah? About what?”

Karkat contemplates him—at a few paces closer, he can smell him: warm, hand lotion and chlorine, coconut oil (he uses it on his hair) and cherry chapstick (his skin dries out easily in winter, especially his lips) and lavender deodorant (his sister makes crafts for extra money). Eventually he opens his mouth and says, voice troublingly husky, “About how much of a giant, repulsive nerd you are.”

Repulsive, he says, as he lets himself orbit a little closer. He hasn’t actually touched Dave while he was shirtless before. It’s starting to sound tempting.

“Aw,” Dave says. “I totally believe that. Sincerely.” His chest is toned, but skinny. He has developed pectorals and the ridges of his sternum are visible, along with his ribs when he shifts a kind of way; no six-pack, but his stomach is smooth. The freckles lighten around his navel, picking up again around his hips, where his sweatpants are slung low. They’re beautifully defined, arcing out in a way that begs to be grabbed and squeezed.

To stop himself from wondering what’s going on in the places he can’t see, Karkat mutters, “shut up,” and faceplants into Dave’s chest.

He’s finally, at last, not angry about the eight inches Dave has on him, because it’s so easy to fit his head into the crook of Dave’s neck and let his callused palms drag slow as he wraps his arms around Dave’s back, tracing his skin the entire way.

Dave wraps around him like— (like his dad’s comforter. like an old sweater. like a long distance friend he hasn’t seen in years. like a hot bubble bath. like the smell of fresh bread. like holding someone’s hand for the first time.) —and oh, god, he hasn’t been hugged in _so long_ , not properly. Side-hugs, maybe a quick squeeze, post-makeout cuddles, but not. (He shivers, there in Dave’s arms, and Dave draws him in him closer, rubbing his nose through Karkat’s wild hair.) Karkat makes a soft sound he won’t admit to. It’s relief and stress and terror and darkness and blinding fucking light, like the way Dave’s curls reflect when he’s lounging in the sunbeams from the window.

Karkat melts. Dave kisses the top of his head, strokes between his shoulderblades. Dave is trembling, too.

After a time, Dave gently insinuates a hand between them, cupping Karkat’s jaw and turning his face until they can look at each other. Or, in a manner of looking, because Dave is still wearing his sunglasses, and Karkat’s never seen him without them aside from that one time, and he really, perversely wants to push them up—but he doesn’t. He swallows down any questions about it, too, switching to the most obvious fallback since he’s already opened his mouth. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

He looks contemplative, then shakes his head. “Nah, I was gonna ask you somethin’ else.” Then he’s silent.

“Yes?” Karkat presses.

Dave’s face twitches with something Karkat can only assume is nerves and brief regret for saying something, and the vulnerable parts of Karkat that prey on other people’s weakness so they won’t notice his own, they strain to come up with something teasing or mean to say, but he doesn’t. He hides it behind his teeth with a mental _click_ and pushes up on his toes to kiss the corner of Dave’s mouth.

If Karkat can trust Dave, this terrible, obnoxious, motor-mouthed kid who annoyed the shit out of him and doesn’t seem to understand how to give up on a person, then he thinks it should go both ways.

“I kinda make music, sometimes,” Dave hedges, awkwardly. “I ain’t that good? I stopped practising as much as I did when I was young, ‘cuz now I draw for a living—” Karkat didn’t actually know that, though he has seen Dave’s art supplies lying around “—but I still like doin’ it, I guess.”

He trails off. Karkat raises his eyebrows. “Are you inviting me to listen to your band?”

Despite himself, Dave dissolves into snickers. “Shut up. I’m only kinda, no one thinks I’m cool enough to form a band with, so I’m literally askin’ you to listen to electronic shit alone in my room while you pretend to ignore the ashamed sobs.”

“That’s okay,” Karkat says. “I already ignore my own internal screaming. This’ll be easy.”

“Are you challenging me to an anguished self loathing match?” Dave asks. “Because you’re so on.”

“I will beat you into the ground, dickweal,” Karkat says, jabbing a finger in Dave’s face. Dave contemplates the digit, then darts forward and bites it. His tongue drags as he pulls back again, teeth scraping, and smirks in self satisfaction at Karkat’s surprised squeak.

His smugness is infuriating (and sexy) and when he tosses his head in the direction of his bedroom, Karkat is pretty much powerless to refuse. “I hate you,” Karkat says belatedly, as he crosses the threshold. Dave laughs like he means it.

“Go get cozy,” Dave says, distracted as he fiddles with his laptop on the desk. He removes a set of speakers from the closet and starts plugging things into other things, produces some other gadgets Karkat doesn’t have names for and plugs them in, too. Karkat decides he doesn’t need to watch it, and goes to lay down on the bed, but even though he takes out his phone his eyes are still on Dave, watching him intently until the screen goes blank. He gives up on pretending not to care.

Dave is pretty. It’s a weird way to describe him, because Karkat wouldn’t necessarily say ‘handsome,’ or even ‘attractive’ at the first glance. Intimately, though, when Karkat is studying the slope of his back or the knobs of his knuckles, the way his muscles flex as he bends over his desk— when his hair is slumped over his ears and his mouth is twisting with concentration, and his entire body is a mess of copper splotches on ice white skin— when he isn’t being awkward and shy and hostile, isn’t rambling nervously, isn’t being defensive, when he looks comfortable in his environment and rolls his neck fluidly, thumbs hooking under the waistband of his pants so he can tug them a bit higher on his slender hips…

When Karkat realizes that it’s been only a month and he already feels like he _knows_ Dave, and _likes_ him, Dave morphs from the awkward teenager he ways into the boy that turned twenty today, right under Karkat’s nose. A boy who is far more considerate than he lets himself appear to be. Dave cares. He cares a lot, and Karkat remembers his snowy eyelashes touching freckled cheeks as he tried not to cry in Karkat’s store.

It’s those details that turn Dave from gawky to graceful, rhythmic in his movements. Karkat swears, watching him, he can feel the beat in Dave’s limbs before the first note even hits the air.

Dave pulls up a chair, and bobs his head, and taps his foot. It’s minimal but meaningful, and the beat is soothing but he keeps his eyes open, devouring every detail. Dave clicks around for about fifteen minutes, messing with the instruments he brought out, until finally he twists in the chair. He’s not smiling, but his mouth is gentle, face relaxed. He rubs his palms on his thighs. “Hey,” he murmurs.

Karkat rolls onto his stomach, resting his chin on his folded arms. “Hey.”

“Everything soundin’ alright over there?” Dave wonders, a hint of concern in his tone.

“Yeah, minus one thing.” Dave’s eyebrows crumple with worry. “You’re over there.”

Dave’s mouth opens, then he closes it. Then he snorts, getting the joke. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, twisting his mouth to obscure a smile. Karkat wonders if Dave has a smile quota like he does. Positive emotions are exhausting. “Gimme a sec.” He unplugs a few things, switches wires, and then drags his laptop and the speakers halfway across the floor, until he’s sitting against the bed, bare shoulders bent as he starts to fiddle with the controls again.

It’s louder and more intoxicating up close, though Karkat doesn’t know if it’s the music itself or Dave’s proximity. He doesn’t get too philosophical about it. He’s too busy shifting on the bed so he can get a hand on Dave’s arm, his head spanning the space between Dave and the bed to rest against his shoulder.

The music pulses. So does Karkat.

Dave lets him explore, though he doesn’t take his attention too far away from the music. It’s fine, because Karkat can feel him clench and hum as he kisses up his neck, brushes dry lips behind his earlobe and feels him twitch. His hand charts a map of his upper arm, the muscles in his chest, his clavicle. Studiously gentle. His jawline, the whorl of an ear, the texture of his tightly coiled hair.

An index stroking the dip below his bottom lip, middle finger tracing the peak of his adam’s apple, palm flat against his sternum, matching the beat of his heart to the rhythm of the music.

After some time, Dave puts the laptop aside. The music plays on. He shifts, still on the floor, until he can look Karkat in the eyes. Karkat touches his face and tries to see into him, read what he’s feeling.

The pads of his fingers stop at Dave’s temple. They contemplate each other for a long, sweet moment.

Karkat’s thumb follows the wire of one lens, barely shifting the glasses on Dave’s face. He looks uncertain, but when Karkat mouths, “Can I?” so quiet he barely makes any sound, Dave gives a tiny nod of consent.

He takes his time. This is not a moment he’ll get back.

With the care of an artist, Karkat unhooks the arms from over Dave’s ears, pushing the nosepads until they aren’t touching him anymore. He has little red marks on either side of his bridge where the sunglasses sit all day long. Karkat contemplates them, and then finally withdraws his hand, barely disturbing Dave’s bangs as he removes the glasses from his face.

At first his eyes are too hooded to see, lids low, eyelashes just as long and delicate as he remembers. Then, Dave looks at him.

It’s cliché to say it takes his breath away, but it really does.

Piercing red. Vivid, pinkish, iridescent. Holy shit. Karkat never realized the implications— didn’t think about photosensitivity or genetic anomalies or what might be happening behind the wall Dave put between him and the world. Didn’t think until it was gone and Dave was staring him in the face with the most beautiful eyes Karkat has ever seen.

“Holy shit,” Karkat breathes, and before Dave can interpret it incorrectly, he slides his hand into the back of Dave’s hair and tightens his fingers. “You’re fucking beautiful, you goddamn asshole.”

Dave doesn’t even laugh. His face scrunches up, emotional and raw, and Karkat wonders what he’s been missing all this time. No wonder he covers his eyes. It’d be impossible to conceal anything with how wide and honest they look, shiny with anxious wetness. Karkat is agonizingly tender as he kisses him, lips fitting between Dave’s and rubbing, chapped bits scratching together, pressing then retreating. His heart flutters madly in his chest.

A couple seconds later Dave’s phone goes off, and they both freeze. “‘mgonna ignore that,” Dave mumbles against Karkat’s lips, but Karkat draws back an inch.

“Just see who it is. It could be your sister.”

Dave blinks like he didn’t consider that, then scrambles to pull his phone out of his pocket and turn it on. He blinks in surprise when the screen lights up. “I’ll be damned,” he says.

It’s almost one AM, and Karkat sneaks a glance over his shoulder at the display advertising one text from Rose. Dave doesn’t  try to hide the screen from him, so Karkat sees **‘Sorry about the late text, dear. Time zones got in the way of my promptness, but happy twentieth nonetheless.’** Dave stares at it for a long time, then turns off his phone. He sets it aside and lets out a long, wavery breath.

Karkat drums his fingers against Dave’s collarbone. “Sleep, maybe?” he suggests.

“Nah,” Dave says, twitching his head to the side. He reaches his empty fingers up to twine with Karkat’s. “Not yet.”

* * *

He’s made up his mind.

Karkat scuttles through the aisles of the store, squinting at prices, fidgeting with a calculator. Everything works out, especially once he factors in his discount, and it’s not like he has to pay rent this month. He’s got extra to spare.

When he ascends the stairs to Dave’s apartment, his arms full and legs straining, he feels proud and doesn’t regret his decision at all. He frees one hand just enough to allow him to knock.

“Jeez, dude,” Dave says through the door. “Are you ever gonna remember your—” Dave trails off, staring at Karkat and the carrier under his arm.

“My hands were occupied,” Karkat says, practically vibrating with excitement, and cracks an unsure half-smirk. “Happy birthday. I hope you don’t mind that it’s a day late.” Dumpling scratches at the grate and meows.

Dave looks stricken. “What?” he asks, voice wavering.

Karkat shifts, starting to lose his spark and get uncomfortable. His good moments only go so far, and this one is almost up. “She’s yours,” he explains. “I was a being a dick before, and while I maintain that some of it was warranted, I’m willing to come out of my cave of hatred and fuckery long enough to admit that after a certain point I was just being an irreconcilable shit tit and that my punishment would be admitting it before the world. Or at least you.” Still silence. Karkat feels his hackles raise, even though he should be giving Dave time to process. He _wanted_ grateful tears, damn it. “Earth to fucking Strider. Say something.”

Clearing his throat, Dave grunts, “I don’t know what to say, dude.”

Incredulous, Karkat lifts the crate higher, as if Dave just isn’t understanding his meaning. “I’m approving your application, fuckwit. You get the cat. Hurrah. An entire month of annoying me has paid off, along with like, maybe some of the other stuff too but we won’t talk about that because it could legally be constituted as a bribe and then I’ll have to eliminate any and all witnesses who might be privy to that particular weakness of mine.”

Dave is silent for another beat, and then: “Please don’t kill Ms. Watson.” Karkat snorts despite himself.

“I’ll try to restrain myself, but no promises.” Pause. “Are you gonna help me bring this shit inside?”

It takes a second but Dave nods, and grabs some of the stuff off the floor (litter pan, bag of food, dishes, toys). He left the actual box of litter at the bottom of the stairs because he couldn’t carry it up with everything else. Dave walks into the apartment like he’s in a daze, then sets the full litter pan on a plot of empty desk space. “Is that why you bitched that the apartment was dirty and told me to clean it while you were at work?” he asks.

Karkat scowls. “Yeah. Also, it was a mess.”

“Half your fault.”

“It’s _your_ apartment. I keep the room perfectly neat, thank you very goddamn much. Now watch your cat,” Karkat says, avoiding putting emphasis on the second ‘your.’ “I have to get something else from downstairs.”

“How much shit did you bring, dude? How did you get this all home on the bus?”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “I called for a car, dumbass.” Then he’s off, down the stairs so he can haul the litter up the stairs. He should have made Dave do it, but he’s hoping that by the time he comes back Dave will have adjusted to the proper level of gratitude Karkat was expecting. He regrets the decision later—it’s not that it’s hard for him to move heavy things; he has to move some of the smaller tanks himself at work. But he’s tired from the day and after expending all that energy, he finds Dave sitting at the end of the couch, Dumpling’s carrier on the coffee table as far away from him as he can get it. He’s staring moodily at Dumpling as she meows, displeased about not yet being freed from her plastic prison.

It occurs to him, very briefly, that Dave might just be overwhelmed in the emotions department. He obviously has issues with people doing nice things for him—not that Karkat is one to talk—so maybe he needs a cool-down. What do normal people do to make situations less awkward? Isn’t there a thing where people talk about their day at work or school or the gym or something?

Clearing his throat, Karkat attempts to launch into a conversation that isn’t primarily based on his hatred for the world. “So, uh… how was your day.” He forgets to make it sound like a question.

Dave looks at him, pursing his lips. “It was aight. I just cleaned, and drew some. Pretty typical Friday.”

Karkat snorts, because most people actually _do stuff_ on Fridays, and yet here they are. “I, uh. Finally gave that kid his gecko.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Karkat says, starting to mess with the cat accessories he brought. He should get the litter box set up, at least, before letting Dumpling out. “I thought he wasn’t coming back after the second week, but turns out he was just really focused on being sober when he showed up.” Karkat pauses. “He was a fucking wreck; like, hands shaking all over the place, but I think he’ll do fine. He seemed really invested in doing the right thing for a pet, so maybe it’ll get him onto a better track than, uh.” He doesn’t want to be denigrating, but being an unwanted ward of the state with a drug addiction at 17 isn’t the _best_ situation to be in, exactly.

Dave grunts an affirmative, like he understands Karkat’s unspoken thoughts, but he doesn’t say anything. Karkat crushes a plastic wrapper in his hand and refuses to lose his cool. “So, I’m starting to get the dreaded Christmas calls,” he says, because that’s another thing that happened today.

When he turns to look at Dave for a response, he sees Dave with his fingers halfway shoved in through the bars of Dumpling’s crate, which is a good step. Dave notices him looking and awkwardly pulls his hand back, tucking it between his knees. Karkat pinches his lips down on a frown. “Christmas calls?” Dave asks.

“Yeah, like, people wanting to get animals for someone as a gift.” He drags a hand down his face. “It’s goddamn terrible. ‘Do you carry puppies?’” he mimics. “‘Will you have kittens available at Christmas time?’ ‘Can I get a fish tank/hamster/miniature pig for my child for their sixth birthday?’” Karkat scoffs. “I hate people like that. A pet is a _responsibility_ , not a whim or an accessory or, a fucking _gift_. Animals shouldn’t be a surprise; they’re a commitment.” Karkat’s hand balls up in a fist, but when he looks over at Dave it uncoils. Dave’s face is some mixture of green and red, like he’s both sick and embarrassed at the same time. “Are you… okay?” Karkat asks, wondering if he should be more concerned than he realized.

“Yep, ‘m fine,” Dave says, suddenly standing. “I’m gonna go shower. I’ll talk to you later,” he says quickly, and then without waiting for Karkat to respond he disappears into the bathroom, quickly shutting and locking the door after him.

Karkat’s hand balls back up into a fist.

He looks over at Dumpling in her crate. She yowls at him. “He didn’t even say thank you,” Karkat bemoans. ‘Let me out,’ Dumpling meows back.

Goddamn it.

* * *

He gets everything set up. He wants Dave to be there when he lets Dumpling out and she starts to explore, because maybe it’ll trigger something nurturing in him. Then, he thinks maybe he should let her out so Dave emerges to find her already comfortable. Karkat doesn’t know which would be better, and so he ends up hemming and hawing so long that when Dave finally comes out of the bathroom, nearly an hour later, he looks at him weird and asks, “Why is the cat still locked in the crate? She’s havin’ a fuckin’ aneurysm and you’re just sitting there staring at her.”

… he’s not wrong.

“I uh,” Karkat starts. “Wanted you to do it.”

Dave blinks, then scrunches his nose. His hair is dripping in his eyes. “Alright, I guess,” he says. He acts like the cage is on fire when he walks over and sits on the couch, contemplating it like a vat of actual fucking lava instead of a fluffy, adorable cat who really badly wants to scratch up his furniture and sit on him at inopportune times.

“She’s not going to bite you,” Karkat says crossly.

“Didn’t think she would,” Dave says, throwing him a look. “Jus’ wanted to… make the most outta it, I guess.” Karkat… doesn’t know how to interpret that, but before he can think about it too hard, Dave is unlatching the crate and swinging open the door. Dumpling goes rocketing out of the crate and promptly disappears under the couch. They both stare at the empty space. “Well,” Dave says. “That happened.”

Karkat gets up to try and coax her out, but Dave waves a hand. “Don’t bother. She’ll come out when she wants to. You hungry? I’m hungry.” He walks over to the kitchen without another word.

He makes scrambled eggs. With slices of fried tomatoes, which he puts on top. He gives Karkat a plate. It’s got sprinkles of melty mozzarella cheese and a grating of cracked pepper. Cooking pretty things is already not Dave’s style, but then he sits in silence and eats while staring morosely at his plate, and eventually Karkat can’t handle it anymore. For one: the eggs were delicious, but he still hasn’t gotten a thank you, or even a _reaction_ , and his grace period is fucking over.

“What’s your goddamn deal?” he bursts out with no warning. Possibly not the best approach. Definitely not the best approach, judging from Dave’s expression.

“My deal is… I wanted food?”

“So you make fancy breakfast food?”

“Fuck off,” Dave says neutrally, “Eggs don’t have to be breakfast food; they’re a completely versatile part of a balanced diet and also don’t go bad fast so when I eat Chinese takeout five nights in a row they’re still there for me when I run out of cash before my next patreon drop. Speaking of which that only happened once and I ain’t proud of it, but it’s good to be prepared for these kinda mental—”

“Dave.” He stops, going immediately silent. Usually Karkat has to say his name at least three times to get that effect. “What the fuck is wrong.”

The apartment creaks. Dave is frozen and not saying anything, staring at his half empty plate. Abruptly, he stands up, and walks out of the kitchen. Karkat hesitates but ends up following him because he’s too stubborn to let it go. Dave stops in the threshold of the bedroom, a weird haven mess of both their energies. He feels safe in there, which is why when Dave refuses to go in, Karkat mentally starts preparing for a fight.

“I gotta tell you something,” Dave says at length. Karkat tenses, not saying anything (yet). “It wasn’t somethin’ I ever— Like, I don’t even know how to…” He runs a hand through his wet hair. “I never coulda anticipated shit happenin’ like this and everything is wrong and I promise I didn’t mean any harm by it.”

“Please tell me you’re not the one who robbed my house and stole my bike,” Karkat suggests, half joking.

Dave looks back at him, brow furrowed. “What? No. Dude, what the fuck.”

“I’m just saying,” Karkat says, “there are a lot of ways to piss me the fuck off, but I can’t think of anything you could have done in recent memory that could be that life ruinin—”

“I lied to you.”

At first his hackles raise. Karkat mentally prepares to get indignant and angry and defensive, but then he still can’t think of anything Dave’s done aside from being overwhelmingly annoying and also the nicest person he’s met in ages, so. Uh. “Are you not really an artist?” Karkat asks, wearily sarcastic.

Making a frustrated sound, Dave turns on him. “I literally cannot believe you’re missin’ a great chance to get all angry at me ‘n’ stuff, like what’s wrong with _you_?”

“I just can’t fucking think of anything you could have done that’s that bad, you fucking horse’s ass!” Karkat snaps back, throwing his hands in the air. “So excuse the fuck out of me for not being ready to draw and quarter you over something I don’t even _know yet_.”

Dave’s face is pained. “I can’t believe this. You actually like me too much to hate me for no reason.” He drags a hand down his face. “This fucking sucks.”

Karkat is at a loss. “How the fuck does that _suck?_ ” Does Dave not actually. Like him? What? Is it somehow bad that he got attached and doesn’t want to think the worst of this boy who is weird and wonderful and irritating in the most compelling way possible, beautiful at odd angles and kind where no one can see? Karkat feels funny in his chest at the thought.

Then Dave is turning away, and his voice is pitifully small when he creaks out, “Because you’re gonna fucking hate me when I tell you.”

“What in Satan’s balls could be this fucking important?”

“I didn’t actually plan on keeping Dumpling when I wanted to adopt her, is what.”

The silence hurts. Karkat actually is a foot further from Dave than he was a second ago, but he doesn’t recall taking the steps back. “What… the fuck.”

Dave squeezes his eyes behind his fingertips. “I fucked up, ‘kat. I… It’s a long goddamn story? I just thought…”

“Explain. Fucking now,” Karkat demands, harsh and low. Dave has the grace to flinch, but it doesn’t make him feel better—rather it makes him feel quite worse.

“Can we sit down?”

“No.”

Swallowing hard, Dave mutters, “Okay,” then raises his voice, still avoiding looking at Karkat. “My sister, Rose,” he starts, “she had this cat.” Karkat’s stomach drops at the ‘had.’ “I went over one day, not knowing… He was scared of the vacuum, y’know? Like, lotsa cats are, but… Rose was vacuuming, and he was hiding by the back, and the door was unlocked, and. Iunno. He just. Ran.” (Breathe in, through your nose. Breathe out, through the—) “Between my legs, y’know, he got out. We looked for hours, but it was dark, and he’s a black cat.”

Silence falls.

Karkat scrubs a hand over his eyes. “What next?”

Dave shrugs with one shoulder. “Not much. Rose stopped talking to me. She was really mad. That’s why—” 

“Yeah, I can put the fucking pieces together, Dave.”

He licks his lips and clenches his fist. “Yeah. Well, I… thought… I could get her another cat, and… maybe she’d. Stop being mad at me.”

And there it is, out there in the open. The last month of his life. A critical decision on his part. Not just a gesture of trust, but a gift, as little as he likes pets as gifts, but. It was an olive branch, if the making out itself wasn’t one already. The little ‘I like you, here, please be happy’ that Karkat gave up in the only way he could. And now.

Now.

“You don’t actually want her.”

“It’s not like that,” Dave says.

“Did you just let me stay here so I’d—”

“ _Fuck_ no,” Dave stresses, whirling around to face him. “That’s the fucking unplanned part!”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Karkat says quietly.

“Karkat—”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Karkat snaps, voice raising. “How fucking dare you? How _fucking_ dare— I cannot goddamn be _lieve_ I. You. All this time you were trying to _manipulate_ me to fix _your_ shitty mistake, and I.” Fell for it. He slept in Dave’s bed and opened up about his past and let his heart grow fond of the sight of him, the sound of his voice.

And it was all a goddamn lie.

Dave slumps bonelessly against the doorjamb, still not entering the bedroom, not that Karkat could stop him. (Just last night they sat together in that room and Dave showed him his music and they touched without words and it was sincerely, painfully beautiful.) “It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. I didn’t mean to…”

“Kiss me? Invite me into your home?”

He hesitates, the no on his lips, but it’s true. It wasn’t something he’d expected. Karkat kissed _him_. Dave helped him because he had no other options. It wasn’t ever in the script for them to actually— to actually— “I didn’t plan that, no. You weren’t supposedta know that I gave Dumpling away, but seein’ as you’re here, I couldn’t just.”

“Give her away and hope I wouldn’t notice?” Karkat supplies dryly.

“‘snot like I was gonna sell her to a circus or anythin’,” Dave sighs. “My sister loves her cats.”

“I don’t have any issues with your sister’s petkeeping skills,” Karkat says. “I have issues with you tricking me into thinking well of _your_ petkeeping skills.”

“Dude,” Dave says. “It was an accident—”

“An accident you tried to dodge accountability for!”

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“It’s too late for sorry! I already gave you the fucking cat, I—” He won’t cry. Karkat doesn’t cry much anymore, and he refuses to cry over motherfucking _Dave Strider_. “I’ll just. Make sure to be out of here by the end of the weekend.”

There. Dave finally crosses through into the bedroom, but he’s looking around instead of touching anything, not even sitting on the bed. It takes Karkat a second to realize Dave is looking not at his own belongings, but Karkat’s, scattered through the room like equippable items in a videogame. “You don’t have to,” he begins.

“I do.”

Dave trembles, standing in the middle of the room. “I’m sorry,” he squeaks out.

Karkat curls his lip. “No you’re not.”

Looking over his shoulder, Dave frowns. “Look, I get you’re mad, but… don’t. C’mon.” It sounds like it should have been said in an apathetic, cocky tone, but he just sounds sad, and worn, and tired. Pleading.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like I don’t care,” Dave says, waving a hand in a chaotic loop. “I get that I fucked up, and you can feel free to punish me for that, as you’re already fucking doing, but don’t act like you can just write my feelings out of existence just ‘cuz you’re mad at me.”

Snarling, Karkat yells, “ _What_ feelings?”

“The ones where I fucking _like you_ , jackass.” The yelling stops. Karkat isn’t sure how that happened, but it does. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I keep talking about a plan but there never was a plan, not really, I just, I was fucking _lonely_ , and worried, and it seemed like the only option I had, and I was _stubborn_ , and then I.” His voice catches. Dave clears his throat. “Started to.”

“Started to,” Karkat repeats slowly.

“Enjoy your company, I guess? I don’t fucking know how to say it. I like you. I like that you’re here. I’m fucking sorry I fucked that up, okay? At least let me have that.” He plunks himself down on the edge of the bed and buries his face in his hands.

Karkat props himself up against the doorjamb, frowning at Dave. “Why should I?” he asks. “Genuine question.”

Dave opens his mouth, then closes it. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

He doesn’t know whether to start flailing or roll his eyes or scream and stomp his feet or what. In the end, he doesn’t do any of those things. “You know how important this is to me,” he says slowly. “And you’re saying you’re sorry and that you want me to believe you. Why should I believe that?”

No one says anything for a few minutes, and then Dave whispers, voice scratchy, “You should take her back.”

“What?”

“The cat. Dumpling. I didn’t… I don’t deserve her, or your trust, or my sister talkin’ to me, or anything. Take her back when you go to work tomorrow.”

Karkat sighs heavily, then moves until he’s in front of Dave and drops to sit on his heels, peering into Dave’s half-obscured face. After a moment he reaches out and pulls one of his hands away, looking into his eyes through the opaque lenses of his shades. It helps that he knows what’s under them now. “That isn’t what I wanted to hear.”

Blinking, Dave says, “What do you want to hear.”

Karkat purses his lips. “I don’t know. You’re supposed to figure that out. Tell me you like me again.”

Dave snorts very quietly. “I like you.”

“How much?”

“More than either of us deserve?” he guesses.

“Mm,” Karkat hums, thinking it over. “Try again.”

“As much as you deserve, not that I’m worthy of your presence,” Dave tries.

It wins a soft snicker. “Getting better.” His hand shifts off of Dave’s, reaching up to grab his sunglasses. Dave twitches but doesn’t resist. Karkat pulls the shades away and sets them aside. “You’re a fucking dumbass for doing this, you realize.” Dave nods, mute. “You could have just nixed the idea and pretended it was never a thing, at least until I moved out.” Dave shrugs. “But you didn’t.” Karkat touches his knee. “You told me the truth even though it made you look like the biggest dumbass on the entire east coast and knowing that I was probably going to kill you and hide your body in the basement storage while living off your resources until they were gone, at which point I’d disappear to find a new life.”

“Yeah, well, I did guess all of that,” Dave says. “Though I thought you’d just steal everything and get to your new life so you’d have all my savings ‘n’ stuff.”

“No,” Karkat says. “I still work, I’ll live off your money while saving up my paychecks.” He clears his throat. “Anyway.”

“Anyway.”

“I literally can’t believe you were stupid enough to tell me about this, but I guess if you were less of an idiot I wouldn’t like you as much, for whatever unfathomable reason.”

Dave looks up at him through his (long, white, ridiculously pretty) eyelashes. “You like me?”

“Still. Again, I couldn’t exactly say why, but. Yeah.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up, weak but hopeful. “You’re way too nice.”

“You first,” Karkat says, then stands up. “Scoot over.”

“What?”

Karkat finally gives in to the urge to roll his eyes. “You heard me. You’re taking up half the bed, you ridiculously, unnecessarily tall jackwagon.” Dave stares at him like he just grew a dick on his forehead, but slowly stands up. He doesn’t move after that though, so Karkat takes it upon himself to throw his body on the bed, scooting over until he reaches the wall. Dave is still standing there like a powered down robot, so Karkat gives a helpful pat to the mattress next to him. “You coming, or am I going to sleep?”

Like coming to life, Dave scrabbles down beside him, bare eyes wide and shocked as he lays himself next to Karkat, taking pains not to touch. Karkat rolls over onto his side, tugging Dave’s arm until he does the same. “Hey,” he says.

“Sup,” Dave responds.

“If you ever do something like this again, I really will kill you and steal all your earthly possessions. You know that, right?”

“I don’t know that I _could_ do somethin’ like this again, but deal anyway, I guess.”

“You get what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Dave pauses, looking down at the mattress. “Arrre… you still moving out?”

Karkat looks down as well, bites his lip. “No, I guess not. I don’t really have anywhere else to go, anyway. Besides, someone has to be around to watch Dumpling while your incompetent ass is bumbling around fucking shit up.”

“I won’t take offense to that because it’s true,” Dave says.

“Good.” Slumping down onto the pillows, both of which he’s stolen to his side of the bed, leaving Dave with nothing, Karkat huffs a deep breath through his nostrils. “That conversation was exhausting.”

“I was expecting worse,” Dave admits. “But yeah.”

Karkat eyes him speculatively. “Why did you tell me?”

Dave meets his gaze after a brief hesitation. His eyes tremble like he wants to look away again. “Because I… ‘f I wanted to keep you around, you’d hafta know eventually. Like, I couldn’t keep it a secret forever, and you’d hate me more if you found out after I’d done it.”

Despite himself, a slow smile spreads Karkat’s lips. “You want to keep me around,” he parrots.

Dave goes red and looks away. “I guess I do.”

“Then I guess I’ll stay,” Karkat says, inching a bit closer into the space between them. “But I’m going to be extra annoying about it.”

He watches Dave’s lips purse, repressing a smile. “I’m okay with that.”

Karkat grins, fierce and awkward but honest, weirdly happy even after the emotional rollercoaster. “You’d better be.” Then he touches Dave’s face.

Then Dave kisses him.

It’s the first time Dave has actually initiated contact between them (he probably hopes Karkat hasn’t noticed) and so for a short second his reaction is surprise. That’s all Dave needs to crumble in insecurity, though. He jerks back, already turning bright red under his thousands and thousands of freckles. “Wow,” Karkat says, blinking.

Dave clears his throat and talks with that forced apathetic tone, as if his voice isn’t wobbling and his skin isn’t flushed with embarrassment and fear (which he probably doesn’t realize is misfounded). “What.”

Karkat snorts. “You’re such a baby.” Before Dave can get indignant or question it, Karkat pounces. Dave didn’t squirm back that far, after all.

He’s up on one arm, leaning over Dave with a fist in his shirt. Dave flops onto his back, gasping in quiet shock in between returning Karkat’s kisses, lips fumbling, hand fidgeting in the air like he doesn’t know what to do with it. Karkat helps. His fingers loosen from Dave’s shirt (now that he’s sure Dave isn’t going anywhere) and thread through Dave’s, squeezing until he feels Dave respond. Then he guides his hand, placing it on his hip, sliding his palm up Dave’s forearm so he can tug his arm closer until Dave takes the initiative and winds it up his back, sliding under his sweater but still over his t-shirt.

They stay like that, mouths hungry, until Karkat’s arm gets tired and he prods at Dave again, fussing incoherently until Dave gets the hint and shifts up, onto his side, until he’s rolling on top of Karkat and their thighs slot together in the most satisfying way; he can’t help but arch up into Dave, rumbling in his throat.

Dave makes A Sound and Karkat smirks against his mouth, then bites him. He gets a whimper for his trouble, Dave’s lips parted and his breath heavy. Karkat licks over his bottom lip with his tongue, soothing away the sting of teeth, and Dave crashes down against him with not a second to spare.

Last night Dave was shirtless and vulnerable and pretty, and right now he is desperate and needy and not shirtless, and one of those things needs to change. Karkat goes for it: palms flattened, coursing down Dave’s front, taking in the planes of his chest. He gives into an earlier desire to squeeze at his hips and it’s just as nice as he imagined; even more so when Dave whines and bucks, mouth falling a bit too far open. Karkat coaxes him back into motion, humming as his fingers find a sliver of skin and seek more, pushing his shirt up as they chart the length of his sides.

Eager and squirmy, Dave rears up onto his knees, grabbing his shirt out of his hands and hauling it over his head. Karkat gazes, appreciative, gnawing on his lips.

He takes back his earlier thoughts about Dave not being especially handsome, because he’s flushed and straddling Karkat’s thigh and his pants are tight, the waistband low, and it takes a lot of self control on Karkat’s part to bring his hands to Dave’s shoulders instead of his zipper. He weaves his hand into Dave’s hair and props himself up on one elbow as he methodically sucks a dark, massive hickey into the crook of his neck, pretending to be unaffected by the way he keens and squirms.

(It’s only his extensive experience with bait and switch that allows Karkat to not reveal exactly _how_ affected he is. He wants to clench his thighs around one of Dave’s knees and hold him there.)

As much as Karkat is the bossiest bottom boy ever to bite a pillow, and as much as Dave seems willing to riff off that, it still amuses him how absolutely virginal Dave seems. A tiny bit clumsy, easily overwhelmed, noisier than Karkat’s ever heard him—Karkat enjoys seeing his attempts to top be derailed by the most innocuous of touches. He plays with it, because Karkat’s getting the impression that Dave isn’t exactly _experienced_ , so he lets him get a leg up and then brings him crashing down with teeth here and tongue there, hands down the back of his jeans squeezing his ass through his boxers, grinding into him and listening to his natural rhythm stutter.

Then Dave surprises him, as he often does.

Karkat has his tongue tracing the shell of Dave’s ear, thumb hooked in his waistband and fingers drumming dangerously close to his inner thigh, inches away from where Dave is hot and hard and wanting. (Karkat wants it, too, but he’s not actually sure Dave is ready, which is the only reason he holds off.) Dave lets slip a groan that’s louder than Karkat would have expected from the touch, even though it doesn’t surprise him coming from Dave, and he snickers.

It’s a quiet thing, but Dave freezes up. At first Karkat’s worried he upset him somehow, then Dave is bearing down on him, mouth capturing his own with searing intensity. Dave finds his wrists and pins them above his head—first with both hands, then just one. His free hand goes to Karkat’s waist where his clothes are already rumpled and twisted and shoves both shirt and sweater all the way up to his armpits. Karkat’s eyes are wide, gut tense with excitement, lower body throbbing. Dave takes a moment to devour him with his eyes, lips pulling in the tiniest smirk before he dives in.

He kisses up Karkat’s sternum and then bites, and then sucks, and he isn’t gentle about it. Karkat’s entire back arches off the bed but Dave doesn’t stop or let him breathe. His palm is sweaty around Karkat’s wrists and his grip slackens, which is understandable (he’s distracted) but unacceptable. Karkat squirms like he’s going to escape and Dave— (loses it for a second, fumbles around the slickness between their skin to get his hold back, gapes briefly in surprise)

catches him.

Slides an arm under the small of his back to hold him still, rakes nails over his shoulderblades, lowers his mouth to one of Karkat’s nipples and gets the first scream of the night. 

“ _Ffffuck_ ,” he moans, writhing so hard that if Dave wasn’t holding him securely he probably would have broken free.

Now Dave snickers, mutters, “good boy,” against his skin, and Karkat just about comes in his pants for how hot it gets him. He only barely doesn’t, which is great because Dave sets the bar several notches higher and gets promptly to work.

Fifteen minutes later Karkat has scratches on his hips and his pants are unbuttoned and there’s bite marks and bruises in places he didn’t think such things could go. He’s gulping air and Dave is humming, hands warm as they course up and down Karkat’s inner thighs from where Dave’s kneeling between them. Karkat’s hands are still over his head, clutching the pillows, knuckles white, even though Dave moved his hand ages ago when he started kissing his way down Karkat’s stomach. He has to adjust, though, because his fingers are starting to go numb.

His hands shake wildly when he tries to lower them. Dave catches them in his own, rubbing his thumbs over Karkat’s palms and dipping in to kiss his damp fingertips. He tucks Karkat’s arms gently at his sides, runs his hands up the fabric still covering his shoulders, then traces all the way down his front, touch glancing and tender. Karkat shivers, but his breathing starts to slow.

Dave shifts, moving from the cradle of Karkat’s thighs to rest beside him, still slowly stroking his bare skin as he comes down, lips pressing feathery kisses to his temple. When he feels like he can move again Karkat grabs his hand from the air, holding it tightly as he turns his head until their foreheads meet, their mouths doing the same a moment later. Sweet and soft, they kiss, not breaking contact until their breath becomes normal again and Dave smooths Karkat’s shirts back down his body.

Then Dave gathers him in his arms, burying his face in the crook of Karkat’s neck, and draws in a shuddery inhale.

“You okay?” Karkat wonders, gently petting his hair.

“Mm,” Dave responds, muffled. “Jus’ glad you’re still here.”

Anything he could say would ruin it, so Karkat only hums and is otherwise quiet, lightly trailing his fingers up and down Dave’s back. Nothing else really needs to be said, he thinks. Dave’s already gotten Karkat’s answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you EVERYONE for your great theories and comments! i was so delighted seeing who got stuff right, who got stuff ALMOST right, and whose ideas were nothing i'd considered but loved anyway! i loved everyone who participated, and it was really hard picking a favourite, but here we go:
> 
> congrats, [Rosesandrecords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosesandrecords/pseuds/Rosesandrecords), you win a free drabble. you can hit me up on skype @ uumiho or send an ask to my tumblr with prompts (though i prefer IM so i can respond easily).
> 
> honourable mention to [slimedragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/slimedragon/pseuds/slimedragon) for making me laugh REALLY HARD.
> 
> ♥♥♥ thanks everyone SO MUCH for reading, i adore you all. you guys have truly made this story worth my tiny impulsive decision to write.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (edit: if this pops up again for you sorry, ao3 did something weird with the publication date and i had to change it!)
> 
> y'all... it's almost over... Y'ALL. i almost cried at the end of this chapter and i will assuredly cry next chapter. in advance, thank you ALL for sticking with me through this ride and making tank time a great adventure in super gay boys. 
> 
> i have some updates on my life! i'll make a big post about it, but here goes:
> 
> i got my service dog! she's great. thanks to everyone who sent donations or well wishes. if you want cute pictures, just check my [reyah violet tag](http://hermitcrabwithwings.tumblr.com/tagged/reyahviolet) on tumblr. 
> 
> speaking of hitting me up, i just realized that [my tumblr](http://hermitcrabwithwings.tumblr.com/) didn't have open asks. they are now open! to celebrate, send me shit? i'd love to natter about davekat and tank time and whatever anyone wants to know about me. you can also send me writing (or drawing) prompts.
> 
> speaking of, rosesandrecords, [here's your gift drabble!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7696720) i hope you like it.
> 
> anyway that's about it! please enjoy this chapter. remember: there's only one more chapter and an epilogue after this, but tank time verse will continue in SIDEFICS. please subscribe to the series so you can get alerts for them, because they will all be posted separately.

Despite spending the first twenty-four hours in the apartment hidden under the couch, Dumpling settles in well. If by ‘well’ Dave means: she establishes a ritual that somehow involves waking both him and Karkat up at the same time.

Karkat feeds her before going to work, but he also locks the door to the bedroom every night. Even though Karkat is regular and gets up at eight every day (it used to be much earlier) and puts her bowl down at eight thirty on the dot, Dumpling has decided that seven o’clock sounds better. Karkat doesn’t understand it. She didn’t get fed until after nine at the store, but there’s no reasoning with her. At almost exactly seven o’clock every damn morning, Dumpling gets up from her cat business and scratches at the bedroom door, meowing plaintively until one or both of them starts begging for mercy. Usually it’s Dave. He argues that it's worse for him since he's on the couch.

Karkat starts sleeping with the door cracked.

A week after she shows up, a week after the truth comes out, Rose is back from her vacation. The ‘what-to-do’ awkwardness is still present between them. Dave has personally beat his head against a wall over every single fucking option he can think about and still has no idea how to handle the situation.

It’s a big relief to have Rose talking to him again. She texted him when she got back in town yesterday. Dave can’t one hundred percent guarantee she isn’t pretending to be okay when really she isn’t and is waiting for him to notice, but hopefully Rose will ping on the fact that he is _way_ too exhausted to play that game right now and desist.

He loves his sister and usually this wouldn’t be an issue, but… it’s starting to feel like he’s going to have to make a choice between Rose and Karkat, and he desperately doesn’t want to have to do that. How does one even put value on one’s sister versus… whatever Karkat is to him, expressed in fewer words than ‘someone he likes a lot and would prefer to keep around.’ How is Dave supposed to make sure Rose is okay and that their relationship isn’t still damaged without alienating Karkat to the point where he applies for some human experimentation research in the Netherlands just to get away from him and they never see each other again, except perhaps thirty years in the future when Karkat is a mutated horror who recognizes Dave in a dark alley, reaching out to him, caught in nostalgic desperation for one last dreg of human contact—

Okay, Dave, calm down. The chances of that happening are much less likely than Karkat slowly growing to resent Dave for lying to him, their comfortable companionship withering more and more until one day Karkat leaves for the last time, doesn’t come back, too tired to deal with any more bullshit.

A shudder runs down his spine. They haven’t talked about it since Dave’s initial confession. He doesn’t want to bring it up again, but time is running out on a decision and Dave never thought in his life he’d be this torn up over a fucking _cat_. Especially not a cat who scratches at the door when they’re making out, which is the lesser of two evils, because if they _don’t_ close the door then she jumps up on the bed _with them_ and no, no, no.

They kiss a lot more now, which is a poor substitute for talking about their problems but Dave figures their fight maxed out the Difficult Conversation meter and now they’re waiting for it to come back out of the red.

Speaking of red, a big maroon blob enters his vision, turning into Karkat, who is wearing one of Dave’s big hoodies. He gets between Dave and the television, which is paused on a frame of some shitty indie animation that he can’t stop watching. It’s weirdly compelling artistically, even if the plot is almost intentionally embarrassing, which has lead to Dave sitting on his couch, playing it at a third of the normal speed, doing gestural studies on his tablet. He sets the aforementioned tablet aside in the nick of time, because Karkat lands in his lap a second later. “Hey buddy. Sup.”

Karkat slings an arm around his neck and kisses him instead of answering. Dave melts into him helplessly, hands slipping up the back of his shirt. His core temperature is ridiculously high, which is great for winter snuggles, particularly ones that involve being half naked under a blanket, ignoring the movie in the background, just skin on warm _warmer_ skin, Karkat’s hips glued against his, chest swelling rhythmically as he sucks at Dave’s clavicle— hey, wait, what?

He’s no longer being kissed, and even worse, Karkat knocks Dave’s hands free of his clothing and stands back up, crossing his arms and sneering down at him expectantly, except Dave doesn’t know what he’s even expecting. “Why aren’t you ready to go yet?” he asks demandingly.

Dave blinks, owl-eyed. (Where did he put his shades? He kinda just set them somewhere, which he always did around the house but with Karkat around it’s _different_.) “Ready for what, dude?” Karkat just got home from work an hour ago— heh. Home. Like this is Karkat’s actual living space and not a temporary shelter while he finds a better apartment. Dave is secretly crossing his fingers for Karkat to find something on this side of town, so Karkat can get to his job easily, but more selfishly, so Dave doesn’t have to travel too far to see him.

Regardless, it’s seven o’clock on a Friday and Dave doesn’t have plans. Unless one counts ‘drawing and fretting’ as plans, which Dave doesn’t.

Rolling his eyes like he’s being done a great disservice, Karkat says, “Gee, I wonder. Like you haven’t been a ball of fucking anxiety all goddamn day over your sister being back in town.”

Tensing, Dave shrinks back into the couch cushions. “Yeah, but—”

“Look, assface, it’s getting dark. There’s no reason to pay for a cab both ways so I assume we’re walking back, and I don’t need that to happen at two AM. Forecast says it’s going to snow at least three to five inches overnight.”

“You listen to the weather?”

“I have a smartphone, dicksore, there’s an app—”

“Wait,” Dave interrupts. “We?”

Finally, Karkat’s rigid, aggressive stands goes a little mushy at the edges. He bites the inside of his lip. Dave wonders if he thinks he doesn’t notice. “I figured you’d want some help transporting Dumpling, considering what a gangly fuck-up you are. You’d probably drop the carrier and she’d escape or something, right in front of your sister. Not that I want that to happen, mind you, but if it does, I need to be there to witness your utter humiliation after-the-fact. Maybe I’ll even have my phone out, just in case, so I can relive the moment of devastating failure again and a—mmph.”

Using a kiss to stop someone from talking is so misogynist-romcom, which is not entirely Dave’s aesthetic, but in the midst of Karkat recounting how badly he wants to revel in Dave’s pain, he picks up the subtler cues that Karkat is giving Dave his blessing and also _going with him_ , and he’ll get to meet Rose, and then they’ll walk back together, snowflakes glittering under the streetlamps and maybe they’ll even _hold hands_. If Karkat doesn’t complain about the cold and insist on shoving his hands in his pockets, anyway.

Dave’s pockets. He’s wearing _Dave’s_ hoodie. Dave bounces on his toes and cradles Karkat’s face as he kisses him. Just as he starts to get into it, Karkat elbows him back. He’s trying to scowl, but there’s a badly repressed smirk fighting the downturned corners of his mouth. “Stop being sappy,” he says, which is bullshit because Karkat is the _king_ of sappy.

“Sure,” Dave agrees, shoving his hands in his sweatpants pockets to stop himself from grabbing Karkat again. “Lemme just switch to the latest action thriller so I can complete my transformation into the heroic, square-jawed Hollywood hunk I was always meant to be.”

Karkat raises his eyebrows at Dave, the smirk becoming a little more prominent. “Does that make me the sidekick or the love interest?” He pauses a beat. “Choose your answer wisely.”

“Neither,” Dave says smoothly, walking backwards so he can keep facing Karkat, headed in the approximate direction of the bedroom, which still houses all of his clothing. “You’re my mentor. Like the noble Philoctetes, you will craft me like the finest marble into the spitting image of masculine godhood.”

What could have been a derisive snort dissolves into a mess of snickers. “Are you calling me a goat?”

“Only half.”

“I’ll remind you of that fact next time we make out.”

“That could have been five minutes ago but you’re making me put on real pants.”

“Don’t call those paper-thin, skintight abominations you wear ‘real pants.’”

“Oh, I’m sorry, maybe instead I should wear formless dad jeans I got at the Salvation Army for two bucks after they were donated by someone’s mom.”

“All I’m saying is that when you get hypothermia from wearing practically no clothing in the middle of December, don’t blame— pfffft.” Dave misses the doorway by a few inches and runs his head into the doorjamb. Karkat doesn’t kiss it better, but he does ogle him while he changes, which is half as good. Dave doesn’t complain.

Not until Karkat reveals his evil plan and makes _Dave_ put Dumpling in the carrying crate, anyway.

“I’m going to get tetanus,” Dave complains.

“She’s had her vaccinations.”

“I’m bleeding out.”

“I have 911 on speed dial.”

“Does speed dial even exist anymore? I thought that was an old person phone thing.”

“Shut up and knock.” Beside him, Karkat is shifting the crate in his arms. The cab has long since driven off, and Dave’s been using the scratches Dumpling liberally applied to his arms to stall.

No more. Karkat’s not going to let him. If he continues fronting, Karkat might actually knock _for_ him. Dave stares at the door in terror and confesses, “I’m having second thoughts.”

“No, you’re not,” Karkat says, punching him lightly in the side while balancing Dumpling in one arm. She mews quietly at being jostled, but she’s been pretty quiet so far. Aside from the scratching she doesn’t make much noise unless she’s about to be fed. “You’re just scared of rejection.”

Dave shoots him a dry, miserable look. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. We’re all wowed by your unworldly powers of deduct—” This time, Karkat kicks him in the knee.

“Your sister is not going to reject you.”

“You don’t know my sister,” he hisses weakly, shaking his leg out. It doesn’t really hurt that bad, just a tingle.

“I know _you_ ,” Karkat says, and Dave forgets what he was doing. Karkat’s eyes are on him, intense and dark, thick brows low and scrunched over his eyes. Mmmngh. “I know that I’ve spent half of the last month wanting to tell you no in various ways and haven’t managed to stick with any of them.” Dave’s heart pangs; his eyes are wide behind his shades. “So, you know,” Karkat finishes lamely, dropping his gaze to the snowy porch under their feet. “Don’t worry, or whatever. I’m sure she finds you as annoyingly irresistible as I do.”

A very small, very genuine smile creeps up on Dave’s mouth, and for once he doesn’t try to hide or repress it. He runs with it, letting the feeling flow through him— or is that those happy hormones he’s heard about, that can be triggered by facial expressions? Like endorphins but emotional mind control. He’s okay with being mind controlled by happy Karkat feelings. “I like you too,” Dave says, and delicately removes the cat carrier from Karkat’s hands, balancing it on his hip as he negotiates through the space between them (Dumpling, likewise, negotiates her own space inside the carrier, making the weight shift). Karkat is wearing a similar small smile, maybe a bit more bashful, and he leans up when Dave leans down.

The door opens. It takes him a second to register the shifting light with his eyes closed, and when he hears a voice he almost drops the carrier. “Oh. Hello.”

“Rose!” His head whips around so fast that Dave thinks his lips were left behind with Karkat. He stares ahead in terror as the slender figure of his sister purses her lips at him through the screen door.

“Is this some weird door-to-door sales pitch? Because I am definitely interested, if so.”

Hi, Rose. Long time no see. This is my— uh, this is Karkat.

Dave gawps and doesn’t say a word. The floundering is oh so strong. Meanwhile, Karkat is looking between the two of them with an incredulous expression, and just as Rose is opening her mouth again to question why Dave is kissing a boy on her porch, in the dark, Karkat bursts out: “You didn’t fucking tell me you were _twins_.”

They blink at him in tandem, two pairs of snowy white eyelashes. Rose brushes a cluster of tight blonde curls behind her pale ear, and clears her throat. Dave finally finds his voice. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Karkat takes a step back. “I don’t know! That’s usually something you mention. What about your birthday?”

“Rose was born after midnight,” Dave explains, because duh. He was the third, she was the fourth.

“Indeed I was,” Rose adds, pushing open the screen door. “Care to come inside, gentlemen, or are you insisting on holding this meeting in the snow?” She’s right. It’s beginning to snow again, and if Karkat’s stupid weather app was right, it’s going to be a bit nastier than it has been so far.

“Yeah, sure,” Karkat says, starting to move into the space Rose recedes from, giving them room to step inside. He looks pointedly over his shoulder. “Dave?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dave says, and steps further into the light, so the cat carrier is visible. For a second he thinks Rose sees it, but it must have been hidden behind Karkat’s body, because she turns her eyes away from them, looking off down the hallway. Dave tries to be subtle when he continues hiding himself behind Karkat as the screen door falls closed behind them.

“Darling,” Rose calls, “We have company. Don’t come out looking unseemly.”

Kanaya’s voice is muffled at first, but clears as she makes her way down the hall. “I never look unseemly, Rose, shame on— Oh, hello Karkat.” She sounds surprised. Dave is equally surprised.

“Wait, you know—” he starts to say, but is interrupted by Karkat’s louder exclamation.

“Kanaya? _This_ is your Rose?”

The room goes very quiet, and Dumpling chooses that time to make noise. Of course she does. “Miaow!” she implores loudly, scratching at the front of the carrier. Everyone is suddenly looking at Dave, and he wants to die a lot.

Rose peers down at the carrier on his hip. Karkat unhelpfully steps out of the way, giving her a better view. He clears his throat, also unhelpfully. “Hello there,” Rose says.

“Wait, before we discuss why I’m holding a cat,” Dave blurts, “How the fuck do all y’all know each other?”

Kanaya and Karkat exchange odd looks. Karkat frowns down at the floor. “We dated in highschool,” Kanaya answers crisply.

Dave scrunches his nose. “But you’re—”

“She didn’t realize she was a lesbian yet,” Karkat snorts.

Kanaya sniffs, brushing her hands over her skirt. “The relationship was very chaste and it helped form a lifelong friendship that I do not regret despite its awkward beginnings.”

“What about its awkward right-now?” Karkat wonders, glancing back at Rose in a way he probably thinks is sneaky.

“That I do regret,” Kanaya snips. “Good evening, Dave. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Is everything okay?” Karkat chokes on a laugh, and then he gets to be the center of attention. Serves him right.

“Fuck off,” Dave tells him.

“This is approximately zero percent my fault,” Karkat answers, gesturing as if pushing the Awkward Attention Volleyball back to Dave. He’s glad it’s only metaphorical because if an actual Volleyball was rocketing toward him his options would be ‘drop the cat’ or ‘get hit in the face’ and Dave had no plans to drop a cat while standing in a room with both Rose Lalonde and Karkat Vantas.

The room at large seems to expect Dave to respond, but he doesn’t, his vocal cords fail him, and he stands there opening his mouth like a dying fish. When he finally talks, bullshit pops out. “My arm’s getting fucking tired,” he says, “this cat is heavier than she looks.” Karkat snorts in surprise.

Rose sighs. “We should all go sit down,” she suggests, leading the way into the living room.

The apartment his sister shares with her girlfriend is two parts tastefully decorated, one part DIY goth. It’s a combination of classy and nerdy with a little bit of gay sprinkled on top. Dave has always liked being in their house. It’s clean but not tidy, and the decor is more welcoming than pretentious. It feels lived in. He likes it better than his apartment, which he has to stuff full of bullshit just so he doesn’t get itchy from having too much space.

Or had to. Karkat’s there, now, and the space feels a little less Yawning Maw Of Loneliness than it did before. He’s even straightened the desks up a bit. Consolidated.

He puts Dumpling on the coffee table. Kanaya thrifted it, calling it vintage. Rose shellacked printed out screenshots from old B horror movies all over the surface. They’re a good team. Right now, they’re sitting on adjacent overstuffed chairs while he and Karkat share the loveseat, although there’s very little love happening right now. They aren’t even touching.

They’re all waiting for him to speak, so Dave takes a deep breath, and—

 _Mrrrow_.

Something rubs against his leg.

Dave jumps, because he can’t imagine what would be touching him except for the eldritch horror Rose keeps under the couchhhhholy fuck it’s Jaspers. Either that or Jaspers’ clone—Dave supposes there isn’t a shortage of tuxedo cats out there, but also he doesn’t take Rose for the ‘get an identical looking animal to replace the old one’ type, so… what… the hell.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Dave yelps, staring at Jaspers, who now looks affronted.

Everyone in the room is staring at him like he’s crazy, Rose most of all. “That’s Jaspers,” she says patiently, like she’s very afraid he just receded back to preschool level understanding.

“No shit,” Dave snaps. “That’s why I said _what is he doing here_.”

“He lives here, Dave,” interjects Kanaya. Karkat doesn’t say anything; he’s watching the shitshow with rapt fascination.  

“I,” Dave chokes. “I got you a new cat.”

The room goes very, very still. “Oh,” says Rose, breaking the silence. “I… Dave, we found Jaspers two days after he got out. He was hungry and came right back to the house.”

Dave is standing up, but he doesn’t actually remember getting off the couch. Jaspers has his ears back, suddenly deciding he doesn’t like this weird and unpredictable human and his very sudden emotions. “Why were you ignoring me, then?” His voice cracks, just a tiny bit. Behind him, Karkat makes a sound, but Dave doesn’t look back. His eyes are fixed on Rose.

Rose, whose eyebrows are crawling up her forehead in shock. “Darling, I… I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“Like fuck you weren’t. Kanaya said you were going to block me if I didn’t… leave you alone…” The steam is starting to hiss out of him; he watches Kanaya and Rose exchange worried looks.

“It was two AM and you wouldn’t stop texting weird rambling apologies,” Rose says at the same time as Kanaya offers, apologetically, “It was only a joke.”

The couch hits him in the back, because he just thumped back down into it. All this time. All this emotional work and…

It was all in his head. A big misunder-fucking-standing.

“Dave…”

“No, no,” he says. “It’s fine. I’m just gonna go die now.”

Karkat immediately puts a hand on his leg. “Like fuck you are,” he says in tandem with Rose’s much calmer, “Dave, please.” They pause, and then start visually sizing each other up. Oh, hell. He can’t handle this right now.

This time he makes a pointed decision to stand up and bolt from the room, leaving his sister, and the cats, and Karkat behind in the fucked up, ridiculously cozy room that’s full of so much awkwardness it’s going to spontaneously combust and Dave’s not gonna be around for that, nope, he’s going to go hide in the bathtub, behind the purple octopus shower curtain, yes, that is exactly what he is going to—

“Dave.”

He actually has a foot halfway into the bathtub, as promised, when Rose closes the bathroom door behind them. “Hey, sup, mind giving a guy some privacy?”

“If you were using the facilities for their intended purpose, maybe I would.”

Dave snorts, hoisting his other leg into the tub so he can sit down. “Only maybe?”

“We did used to bathe together as children,” Rose says wryly, inching farther into the room.

“Key word: children.”

“We aren’t much better now,” Rose says thinly, and follows him into the tub, crouching until they’re at eye level.

“I would argue, but we’re sitting in a bathtub.”

“Exactly.”

Silence passes. Rose looks at him from under her pale eyelashes, like she’s carefully considering her words. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Dave says immediately, not even having to think. “I thought you’d never talk to me again.”

“I’m… sincerely sorry, Dave.” Rose bites her lip. “If I had any idea, I would have reached out to you. It was— I suppose my silence was foreboding, but it was entirely that Kanaya surprised me early with the trip to cheer me up after losing Jaspers, and then we were so busy getting ready I just figured I would let you know when you contacted me. When you didn’t, I assumed you were busy yourself.” She gives him a speculative look. “Although, I don’t think I was entirely wrong…”

“Grill me about Karkat later,” he grumbles.

“Deal,” she says, and then opens her arms. Dave stares at the pre-embrace with something akin to terror, as Rose says, “For the record, nothing short of killing Kanaya and eating her organs could make me stop talking to you.”

“What if I ate her organs while she was still alive?” Dave wonders, already considering multiple other ways he could kill and/or eat Kanaya without it ending in Rose shunning him.

“So long as it was consensual, I don’t see a reason for me to be upset.”

“Cool,” Dave says, throat going oddly tight. “I’ll remember that.” He sits frozen, still staring at her open arms like they’re about to grow teeth and bite him.

Rose’s voice is so, so gentle. “Come here, darling.”

He crawls into her arms like they’re kids again.

* * *

They don’t leave the bathroom until Dave has made Rose pinky swear not to mention that he actually clutched her and cried into her shoulder a little, so intensely relieved by having her back in his life. She kisses his cheek and promises both to cut his hair tomorrow _and_ that she isn’t mad about anything, yes, Dave, really. Finally, Dave believes her enough to release her back into the wild living room, where Karkat and Kanaya are pretending not to be ridiculously tense as they catch up.

“So are you two—” Kanaya is saying as he enters the room. Dave almost turns on his heel and runs back into the bathroom, but Rose greets them both in a loud voice.

“Everything alright out here?”

Kanaya turns to her. Karkat goes red and looks down at his knees. “Yes, Rose, thank you. Karkat and I were just— discussing what a coincidence it was that we all knew each other indirectly.”

“How about that six degrees of separation thing,” Dave jokes, still visibly uncomfortable.

“We do all live in the same city,” Rose responds evenly, sitting back in her chair. She pats the armrest, and Dave sits down on that instead of walking back over to the loveseat. Karkat might make fun of him later, but fuck him. “And, speaking of that, Dave is invited to lunch tomorrow.” She glances at Kanaya. “Karkat, you’re more than welcome to join him.”

Karkat twists his mouth. “I work until six on Saturdays.”

“Dinner, then. Or whenever you’re next off.”

He shifts. “I’m not.”

Rose blinks, shoots a look at Dave, then seems to think against searching him for answers. “Pardon?”

Shrugging, Karkat says, “I’m the only employee and we’re open every day. I don’t have days off.” Kanaya clucks her tongue in disapproval, and Dave flinches upon seeing Karkat’s face turn stony.

“Sorry that we can’t all have cushy freelance jobs, but I—”

Rose waves her hand, standing up. “I’d appreciate if we didn’t get into fights about classism in my living room. Please.” Karkat silences. Dave is secretly impressed. He’s really only seen Karkat’s boss shut him up so quickly. There’s been times where Dave kissed him and Karkat actually tried to keep ranting in-between smooches. Karkat is still watching Rose like a caged animal, ready to bolt at the slightest infraction. Dave wants to go to him, but forces himself to stay put. They continue with the mental dick-waving, and then Rose says evenly, “Seven thirty tomorrow. Is that manageable?”

There are a few seconds of agonizing tension in which neither of them speak. Karkat’s eyes shift toward Kanaya, who is looking away, visibly pouting at having being snapped at. “That’s fine,” he agrees at length. “I’m a vegetarian.”

A faint smile curves Rose’s lips. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

There’s a yowl that comes from the direction of the coffee table. Dumpling is finished being ignored, it seems, and follows with another, more plaintive one. “So, onto more pressing matters,” Rose says brightly. “Thank you for the birthday present, Dave, but I’m going to have to refuse.”

Dave’s spine goes straight. “What?”

“As you can see, Jaspers is fine.” She gestures at her leg, which the cat is currently rubbing against and purring.

“You can have two cats,” Dave hedges, because he’s pretty sure people can do that. Like, he’s seen it on television. People have more than one cat.

Kanaya makes a warning noise; Rose flaps her hand dismissively. “Some people do, but our lease only allows for one, and furthermore, Jaspers doesn’t get along with other cats. Remember Mutie?” Dave wasn’t in the city at the time, but he does vaguely recall when Rose plucked a three-legged, one-eyed stray off the streets and attempted to make it her own. She’d sent him off to her mother’s house shortly after, though Dave didn’t remember the specifics on why it hadn’t worked out.

“Not really,” Dave says honestly, watching as Jaspers negotiates his way between the coffee table legs over to Karkat, whose lap he immediately jumps on. Karkat doesn’t seem to mind. (Dave notes the subtle ways his body relaxes, even, though he doesn’t call attention to it. He privately likes being able to read Karkat’s less transparent tells.)

“He’s very territorial,” Rose comments, watching Karkat pet Jaspers idly. Dave looks on helplessly, not sure what to do, or how to convince Rose to change her mind. Maybe Dumpling will be different, since she’s a girl cat— isn’t there a thing about animals working better in different sex pairs? Maybe? He’ll google it real quick— oh.

Before Dave even has a chance to reach for his phone, Jaspers and Dumpling catch sight of each other through the carrier grate. Jaspers does a classic cat arch, digging his claws into Karkat’s thighs and hissing. From inside the carrier, Dave years a most displeased rumble. Rose strides quickly over to Karkat and plucks Jaspers off his lap as carefully as she can when he’s got his stupid toe-hooks clinging to Karkat’s person, and doesn’t look particularly bothered when the beast immediately latches onto her front, nails embedding themselves in her shoulders. Dave winces. “As you can see,” Rose says, turning around to display Jaspers to him with her arms spread, illustrating how he clings by himself (fucking ow?), “I don’t think it’s going to work. Sorry, dear.” She wraps her arms around Jaspers again, stroking and soothing him and making little coo noises like the matter has been solved, just like that.

Dave flounders, looking quickly between her and the cat carrier. “Wait, though— What am I supposed to do with her?” His gaze settles involuntarily on Karkat, eyes wide behind his shades.

Karkat fixes him with a vicious look, mouth sneering in a weird display of vindictive delight. “No returns,” he says, then brushes his pants off, stands up, and walks out of the room, leaving Dumpling sitting on the coffee table. Dave watches him go, mouth hanging open like a suffocating fish.

* * *

Kanaya drives them home. Karkat makes him hold Dumpling’s carrier for the ride back, which is mercifully short and unmercifully silent. He’s in the front, Karkat having elected to slump into the back seat without even conversing about it. Dave is a tangled ball of nervous energy, clenching his fingers in the sides of the crate until they’re bee-sting red, stiff when he tries to unhinge them. He follows Karkat inside—Karkat doesn’t say goodbye, immediately hopping out of the car and slamming the door, walking toward the apartment front. He’s remembered his key this time, and goes straight to the bedroom, then closes the door. Dave is left in the doorway holding a cat and no longer sure of the direction his life has just taken.

Well, fuck.

The last month and change of his life have been thrown into a confusing ruin. It was all a misunderstanding; even more than that, it was all a misunderstanding of his own manufacture. The entire thing was his fault. He let the cat out, he bugged Rose into telling him to leave her alone, he interpreted that as sincere rage and didn’t follow up on the situation at all to find out that she had found her cat. He then proceeded to lie about his situation to a person who just wanted to see the cat end up in a good home, rather than in the hands of some incompetent shitheel who can’t even talk to his twin sister.

… and yet, if he hadn’t done any of that, he would never have met Karkat. Or, he would have met him, never thinking more of him than ‘the obnoxious pet store employee’ when, once every couple of months, he stopped by Tank Time to pick up food for Kimchi. They would have orbited around each other, completely ignorant to what could have been.

Dave lets Dumpling out of her crate. She runs immediately beneath the couch. It’s fine. She’ll come out when she stops being mad at him.

So will Karkat. (Haha. The jokes write themselves.)

He doesn’t really want to wait that long, though.

His chucks are already soaked just from walking through the snow to get inside, so he takes them off and pulls his rarely-worn boots out of the closet. There’s a pair of crusty old socks shoved in the toes—gross, but dry, so he ignores the puff of dusty shoe bullshit as he shakes them out and puts them on. He actually has real jackets in here, too, and he grabs one that is boring and grey and puts it over his Ninja Turtles hoodie. He checks the pocket to find an old pair of gloves. Just in case, right? Right.

Finally he grabs a hat, but doesn’t put it on. Instead he twists it between his hands nervously as he walks over to the bedroom door, and knocks. There’s no noise inside. “Hey, ‘kat?” Shifting. Footsteps.

Karkat opens the door and leans against it, peering out. “What?” he asks, then blinks twice as he notices Dave’s unusually weather-appropriate get-up.

“So,” Dave says, propping his shoulder against the doorjamb. “I’m kinda sore about missin’ out on walking back with you.” Karkat raises his eyebrows. “I was gettin’ all excited about it, y’know, winter is all cheesy and romantic at night, and I even—” He reaches into his pocket, managing to grab only one of the gloves, but whatever. (The other falls on the floor as he pulls his hand out.) “I even brought gloves so you wouldn’t bitch about your hand being cold when I tried to hold it.”

His lips are parted noiselessly as he stares at the glove in Dave’s hand. Slowly, Karkat reaches out and plucks it from Dave’s fingers, inspecting it. He looks back up at Dave, lips quirked. “You’re a fucking loser, you know that?” Then, he shoves the single glove in his pocket and extends his other hand toward Dave. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [theme song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drNq6GUqeIc) for today's chapter.
> 
> i was thinking of doing a soundtrack for the fic of songs i listened to to inspire me while writing. would anyone be interested in that? lmk!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is, my guys. the last chapter. don't fret, there's more incoming. we still have:
> 
> \- an epilogue!  
> \- four whole side fics! (remember to subscribe to the series so you get alerts for them!)
> 
> annnnnd drumroll please........
> 
> \- there's going to be a ten chapter sequel! yes we're all pissing our pants with excitement, loft, get to the chapter already.
> 
> thank you so much for reading to the end of this beautiful hot mess of a journey. i sincerely appreciate you all. follow for more bullshit on [my tumblr](http://hermitcrabwithwings.tumblr.com/).

“I said ‘ _take a_ _walk’_ , not ‘ _make out for an hour on a park bench’_ ,” Dave comments, breath husky.

“Oh well,” says Karkat. “At least it’s not snowing. We’d be covered.”

Dave gives him an amused look. Karkat watches his eyes move down from his face to his knees, which are quite comfortably settled on either side of Dave’s hips. His glasses are pushed up into his hair, bunching up his hat, leaving his eyes gleaming in the light from the streetlamp a couple paces behind the bench.

Okay, yeah, the bench on which Karkat is currently straddling him. Whatever. His neck was getting sore. Sue him. “You’d be covered, you mean,” Dave comments, running his hands up Karkat’s back. It’s cold around the edges of their little gay cocoon, but inside it is warm and soft and uh, tingly, in. Places. Yeah.

Karkat snuggles closer to Dave’s front, forcefully shoving his head under his chin so he can nuzzle his nose against a small sliver of Dave’s exposed throat. “I’d live.”

“Bet we’d get covered in snow and would still be making out,” Dave says, snickering softly.

“Mm,” Karkat agrees, musing. “The heat generated would form a perfect halo of ice around us.”

“Instant igloo.”

“The gay Captain America.”

“Wait, Captain America isn’t actually two queers fucking under an American Flag?”

“I was shocked, too.”

They dissolve into snickers, horrible and awful and nerdy, and Karkat tries not to feel too much, because he might actually explode if he lets the past few weeks get to him, squeeze in too close around his heart and curl up around it, beating with him, cradled in his inner chambers until he has no choice but to acknowledge that. That.

Fuck.

He mashes his face in tighter against Dave’s neck, surreptitiously rubbing beading tears off his eyelashes onto Dave’s coat. He gets snow on his eyelids and it stings, but it feels better than explaining why he just burst into a small fit of happy tears.

God damn it, he is though. Happy. This awkward boy-almost-man, total nerd, surprising gentleman, gentle in other ways, soft like his exterior was made of tin foil looking deflective and metallic but the tiniest, tiniest pressure could dent him, but Karkat doesn’t want to do that. He just wants to… hold him for a while. Maybe forever. He’s still deciding.

“You alright there, buddy?”

He’s probably spent about three minutes clinging to Dave wordlessly, though fortunately he doesn’t seem to have picked up on the fact that Karkat was crying. “Fuck off,” he mumbles harmlessly into Dave’s shoulder, reveling in the rumble of his quiet laughter.

“You’re the one on me, dude, like literally on me, I can’t get off anything— other than this bench, I guess, if you really want me to—”

“ _Dave_.”

Chuckling again, he kisses Karkat’s temple, hands smoothing down his spine. “Fine, fine. I’ll just sit here while you use me as an emotional vibrator, s’cool.” Damn him for being way more perceptive than he seems sometimes. Hff. Karkat doesn’t complain, though. He’s comfortable in Dave’s lap, arms around each other, enshrouded in the peace of a dark winter night.

Then Dave squirms, whining a bit in the back of his throat. “Okay, I can’t feel my legs, sorry— Cuddles are great, cuddles are the best, but.”

Karkat pulls back and gives him an exasperated smirk, then rolls his eyes when Dave makes a face at him. “You’re weak,” he says, climbing off the boy’s lap.

“You’re heavy,” Dave parries, immediately grabbing for his hand again.

“Watch it.”

He snorts a quiet laugh; Karkat grants him his hand when Dave doesn’t push it or in any way dig himself deeper into the vat of shit Karkat was preparing for him. Not that Karkat was really upset or anything, it’s just really instinctive for him to start fights where they’re completely un-fucking-necessary. Fortunately, Dave has learned there are some times when he shouldn’t take the bait.

Not that mindless arguing isn’t fun, but they’re both relatively exhausted with big emotional output for the night, so for once in their lives they stay silent, hold hands, and walk through the sparkling carpet of snow.

Until Dave ruins it, of course.

“So,” he says, voice casual and light, like something just occurred to him. Karkat gets a bad feeling, anyway. “How did that background check ever turn out?”

Oh. Fuck.

Karkat immediately stutters on the very thought of producing words. His internal clock shudders and skips several seconds. Breath comes a little bit hard because his lungs probably just passed out from shock. The hamster wheel in his head catches fire, and he abruptly stops walking. “...Karkat?” Dave asks, looking back at him. Their arms are stretched at an angle, hands still linked. “Did you find out about the murders?”

Swallowing, he lets out an uncomfortable, raspy laugh. “Yeah, and the arson and copyright infringement.”

“Damn,” Dave deadpans. “Recreating Jackson Pollock’s last masterpiece on the side of City Hall with jizz and a broken can of spray paint was literally my best performance piece to date.”

Okay, this is fine. He can totally get out of this by just playing along. Karkat scoffs and evens his pace out with Dave’s, urging their bodies back into motion. “You sound like a frat boy who had to take Art History once, five years ago, and now only remembers buzzwords.”

“Mesopotamia,” Dave says amicably. “Something about Etruscans.”

Karkat gives him a bland look. “Yes, thank you, very good.”

“I actually read the entire SparkNotes page for the Epic of Gilgamesh once because I needed to one-up myself during a running gag of historical gay jokes.”

“You’re a regular scholar, Dave.”

“No, forreal, like,” he says, waving his free hand. “My readers love that shit. References, but not like pop culture, I mean yes pop culture but not _exclusively_.” Karkat pretends to be pissy but internally he’s relieved that Dave has changed the subject. “The trick to having good ironic symbolism is not doing what people expect all the time, and really reaching through every possible medium to make the right joke. That’s why this one time I spent two months studying cuneiform syllabary so I could write a bunch of dick jokes on the wall behind two characters in a completely unrelated scene. People went absolutely apeshit when someone finally recognized it, then there was this mad frenzy to be the first person to translate everything. One person was actually an archaeology student and asked their fucking professor to help them.

“The problem though is that once you start going down the rabbit hole you can’t stop. If you put out a page with no hidden meaning once, sure, that’s funny. You get to spend the next week and a half watching people frantically scramble to find _any_ kind of reference at all, and it’s just not there. But you can’t do that all the time otherwise you lose the conspiracy theory crowd who literally wet their panties over this cryptic shit. So I constantly have to find progressively wilder ways to fuck with their heads. In comparison, painting a dildo sticking out of the eye socket of a human skull sounds goddamn easy.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to be proud of you for any of this.”

“Aw,” Dave says, looking up from his feet to give Karkat a fake pout. “I thought you liked the dildo skull painting.”

“I said it was evocative,” Karkat grumbles, “not that I wanted you to hang it over the television.”

“Dude, I took it down.”

“Only after I threatened to put up my Liv Tyler poster next to it.”

“I still don’t know why you even have that.”

“She’s a good actress!”

“Dude, I don’t even know where you come up with this shit. Literally the only good thing she’s ever done was _The Strangers_ and you started crying ten minutes in.”

Huffing, Karkat elbows him (but doesn’t let his hand go). “They were a beautiful couple and they didn’t deserve any of the awful things that were about to happen to them!”

“That’s literally the whole point.”

“Well, the point fucking sucks.”

Dave laughs, and he’s laughing about Karkat’s movie opinions, which would normally be grounds for a fucking fight even if Karkat hasn’t picked up on his last critique in… Huh. It’s been at least a week, maybe two. Now that he thinks back, since Dave started coming in to bother him at work, Karkat’s been far less obsessive about burying every spare second in his critiques. He hasn’t even filled the notebook he was working in when he first met Dave, and usually it only takes him a couple weeks before he has to buy another.

Weird. Weirder still, Karkat isn’t getting defensive about Dave laughing at him, even slants him a crooked half-grin because he’s genuinely goddamn thrilled to hear this stupidly anxious kid laugh freely. God, he really has it bad, doesn’t he?

Their hands come unlinked, but Karkat doesn’t get a chance to complain because Dave is winding around his back, chin hooking over his shoulder and hands tucking up under his arms, squeezing him. They take a few staggering steps forward like that, then Karkat dissolves into annoyed snickers and says, “This is not fucking sustainable, douchewagon.”

“That sounds like something a quitter would say,” Dave says, draping more of his weight across Karkat’s upper back. “Hey,” he continues, not waiting for Karkat to respond. “Forreal though, what dirt do you have on me?”

Karkat’s shoulders tense a bit, and he blurts out, “Nothing!” Shit. “You came up totally clean,” he starts, immediately melting into the coziness of a convenient lie, and then he

pauses.

Thinks about the past week. And opens his mouth, adding: “At least, I assume you would have if I’d actually requested one.”

Now Dave goes tense, stopping whatever comeback was brewing on his tongue. He slips off Karkat’s shoulders and ends up hovering awkwardly behind him, uncharacteristically silent. The back of Karkat’s neck burns where he assumes Dave is staring at him. “I’m confused,” he says finally.

“About what?” Karkat asks, brows furrowing as he inspects a foreign set of footprints in the snow before them, perpendicular to their current path. “The fact that I made up the whole thing, or?”

“Define ‘the whole thing,’ unless we’re doing like, an 'I accidentally the whole bottle' rehash. Not a bad meme for derivative jokes, but when it comes to callbacks you could definitely do better.”

Karkat snorts, rolling his eyes. “There was a verb in there, you obnoxious meme-loving fucktrain. If we absolutely have to talk syntax—which, by the way, I hate that you’re making me do—a more accurate comparison would be ‘I accidentally made up the whole,’ which is nowhere near as funny or surreal and I will fight you if you argue that it is. Omitting a noun has nowhere near as much impact because we already have words like ‘thing’ and ‘stuff’ to take the place of specific objects. So yes, I did make up the whole thing, except it wasn’t accidental, I was just practising my horse’s ass impression in hopes that I’d win at the Biggest Horse Ass competition in July.”

“You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you,” Dave says evenly. “You’re a pretty small horse’s ass. From my vantage point you are, at least.”

“I can _not_ believe you are crushing my dreams like this, Dave,” spits Karkat humourlessly, hands fisted at his sides.

“Sorry,” says Dave, tone dispassionate. “So like, indulge me. What was the actual adoption procedure?”

“Personal information, short interview, care release contract.”

Long pause. “That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s all the rescue requires.”

“So… Everything you made me do…”

“Was just me trying to get rid of you, yeah.”

Longer pause. Karkat wants to turn around and look at him, find out what he’s thinking, but he can’t make himself. He thinks his feet have frozen to the ground and he will be a statue of regret here forever, and then he hears laughter. “That’s cool. I lied about doing the community service, anyway.” Karkat suddenly finds the motivation to whirl around and face him.

“Wait, you did fucking _what?_ ”

Dave _tch_ s. “Dude, you think I actually washed all those windows? I don’t even know who the fucking landlord is. I don’t know the first goddamn thing about community service or how to sign off on it or whatever and it was absolute pure dumb luck that you didn’t ask to see the signature I forged on the community service form I found off google, because I don’t know if it would have held up under scrutiny. Fortunately you were too mad at me bein’ around to actually care about logistics, and probably too caught up in your own dishonest bullshit to look that far into mine.”

They stare each other down for a few intense moments, and then Karkat cracks a small smile, just a twitch out of the corner of his mouth. “No fucking kidding.”

The pale boy in front of him, silhouetted in the yellow light, smiles hesitantly back. “We are the hilarious romcom misunderstanding, it’s us.”

“Misunderstanding? More like willful fucking deceit.”

“There are plenty of romcoms with that plot device, too.”

“Stop besmirching the noble name of the romantic comedy, asshole. We aren’t worthy.”

“Genuinely un-fucking-palatable.”

“You’d have to be an idiot to waste precious time watching a story about us, much less enjoy it.”

“Total dunderfuck,” he agrees, nodding. Dave examines Karkat for a few more seconds and then half-lifts a hand. “C’mere?” he suggests, and really, that’s all the incentive Karkat needs to just tip forward and bodyslam him very gently in the chest. Dave’s arms tuck immediately around him until he is warm and ensconced in puffy insulating fabric and also the skinny limbs of a huge loser whom he likes a metric fucktonne. “Should we be apologizing?” Dave wonders.

“More like congratulating,” Karkat muffles into his chest.

Dave thinks about it. “If you’d have just given me the cat, we never would have become friends.”

“I would never have just given you the cat, Dave.”

“Except you totally did. Like, I didn’t even ask. As a present, too, and then you reamed me out for even considering giving an animal as a present. Did we ever establish how fucking ironic that was? In the actual definition of ironic, not the completely meaningless way I usually say it.”

“Shut up.”

“Admit it.”

“I will punch you in the dick.”

“You’ll regret that later.”

“As if.”

“Okay, fine, but if you break it I’m renaming Dumpling to Master Splinter.”

Karkat pulls his face back just enough for Dave to see when he narrows his eyes. “You are _not_.”

“You don’t get to decide that. She’s mine.”

“I’m taking her back!”

“You and what army?”

Shoving him lightly, Karkat huffs, “I am the only goddamn army I need, fuckface. Just try me.”

“I’ll just wait until you’re gone and then I’ll change it,” Dave says, not bothering to even pretend at staggering backward from Karkat’s push.

“Then I’ll never leave,” he says, crossing his arms and jutting out his chin in noble defiance. He expects a snappy comeback. When they get into the swing of things, Dave never has to think about what he’s going to say, just spits out whatever’s funniest in his mind and sometimes the funniest part about it is how it wouldn’t be funny coming from anyone but him.

Instead, Dave is staring at him, sunglasses still pushed up into his hair. His red-pink eyes blink in the low light. “You promise?”

Karkat falters. “What?”

Dave’s expression changes—for a second he almost looks nauseous, and then he laughs but it sounds off-key somehow. “Nevermind, you’d totally find a way to mentally electrocute me from miles away every time I dared infringe upon your naming mastery. Better idea: She’s yours. Happy birthday.”

“You, what,” Karkat says, floundering. “You can’t just give my birthday present to you back to me! It’s not even my birthday.”

“Merry Christmas fifteen days early. Hey,” he says, no longer looking at Karkat.

Karkat still has no idea what’s going on. “What?”

“I’ll race you to the slide,” Dave says.

“ _What?_ ” He’s starting to feel like a broken record.

“One-two-three _go_.”

… Dave is no longer in front of him. In fact, he is bolting through the snow-covered grass, plunging into the darkness of the park. The light from the street lamp reaches just far enough to kiss the gaudy metal and plastic play equipment, their child-friendly colours washed out by the low light. And there’s Dave, long limbed and quick as he makes a running jump for one of the uneven wheels suspended from the monkey bars. There’s a pained _screeeeeeel_ as it oscillates, stopping with a barely-there wiggle when Dave’s weight lands at its lowest point, leaving him hanging, feet pulled up so they don’t drag on the ground.

“Are we ten?” Karkat calls from a distance, approaching him at a much slower pace, mostly so he has time to hide his perplexed smile.

“Times two, yeah,” Dave says, rocking his lower body so he can propel himself forward, launching toward the second wheel in the row of four. He catches it, but when it twists in response to his weight, his attempt to reach for the next one fails, ending up with him stumbling a few paces on the ground.

Karkat smirks. “Good job.”

“M’ hands are cold,” is Dave’s excuse, delivered alongside a very put-on sulk.

“I wonder whose fault that is.”

“Yours,” Dave says graciously. “You didn’t hold ‘em tight enough.”

He rolls his eyes. “Next time I will sit on them.”

Dave starts climbing the side of the structure, gripping frigid metal like he wasn’t just complaining about his hands being cold. “Oh, baby,” he deadpans, “anything to get that sweet rump all over my— hey!” The handful of snow that Karkat just lobbed at him dissolves long before it reaches its target, but a few flurries ghost past Dave’s defenses, landing amongst his freckles.

“Congratulations. Your hands are getting nowhere near my ass now.”

“Aw, my fingers are gonna fall off. What if I was hypothermic and letting me grope you was the only way you could save me?”

“In that case, we would revisit the scenario where you die and I live in your apartment, draining your resources until someone reluctantly notices you’re gone.”

“Okay, but how would you even get access to my bank account? Even if you had my ID, no one would look at you and believe you’re albino and five foot eleven.”

“I will spontaneously grow seven inches purely out of spite.”

“And turn white?”

Pausing, he says, “Okay, I’m not that desperate. You can grope my ass.”

Dave, now standing on the top of the snowy play structure, leaning over a rail to look down at him, pumps his fist. “Score.” He shuffles around the platform, kicking tiny puffs of snow up in the air as he runs his fingers around the neglected equipment. He stops at the faded yellow-orange covered slide, seems to size it up. Probably trying to gamble on whether or not he’d get stuck if he tried to go down. Karkat shakes his head, refusing to externally admit amusement. “Hey, ‘kat,” Dave calls.

“Mm?”

“I made it to the slide first,” he says, peering through the shiny red bars. “What do I win?”

“I just gave you permission to grope me,” Karkat says, tilting his head at him.

Dave scoffs and straightens, leaning over the railing again. “That was totally unrelated, bro, you can’t use that as two rewards.”

“I have two ass cheeks, you get one for each meager accomplishment.”

“Man, I totally would have gone to college if they used these kind of incentives,” Dave comments. Karkat throws more snow at him, but it doesn’t even reach the platform this time. A bunch of it falls back in Karkat’s face (he hears Dave choke back a snicker). While he’s sputtering and wiping at his stinging eyes, he hears the sound of nylon on plastic, a squeaky-scrubby sound, and then with a _wooooosh,_ Dave goes careening down the slide. “Ah, fuck,” he hears a moment later.

Karkat jogs around the structure to better witness the source of Dave’s pain. He is treated to the sight of Dave shaking snow off his legs, from what was apparently a big pile that gathered at the bottom of the slide. Snerk. “That’s what you get for acting like a third grader.”

“Alright, Ice Prince, stop rubbing one out to fantasies about other people’s misfortune.” He brushes a clump of snow off his knee with his bare hand, then clumsily tries to stand up without hitting his head on the slide’s low canopy.

Taking mercy on him, Karkat wades over to help him out, feeling oddly sentimental about disturbing the previously untouched snow. Here it’s all shadows, far out of reach from the reach of the streetlight. The thick layer of snow reflects the stars, sparkling underfoot. He grips Dave’s hand, pulling him upright, then steadies him with his mouth. Dave melts into the kiss, a slow wave crashing down and subsuming him. His hands _are_ cold, but he buries them in Karkat’s hair under the hoodie rather than stuffing them down the back of his pants. _Good boy_ , Karkat laughs softly against his lips.

It feels like kissing amongst the stars. It feels visceral and safe, and real, and meaningful. It feels far more important than two queer losers making out in the city playground after-hours.

Maybe that is important in and of itself, though. Karkat commits it to memory, for later pondering. In the meanwhile, he seeks heat on the tip of Dave’s tongue, fisting his ashy-brown fingers in the fabric of Dave’s unusually proper winter coat. His lips were already swollen and now they are oversensitive and electric, buzzing when the point of contact shifts, tectonic plates shuddering as they meet.

They are a fucking earthquake at a standstill. He thinks his molecules might be vibrating so hard they will phase themselves out of existence.

Mouths separate, lips wet and tongues immediately lonely. Karkat whimpers into the darkness. Dave presses his lips against Karkat’s once more and takes them away just as quickly. Karkat watches them curve, slow and sweet and satisfied; aches to return to their stronghold. Humming, Dave knocks his nose lightly against Karkat’s temple, kisses the apple of his cheek. Murmurs into his skin: “Wanna go on the swings with me?”

Karkat guffaws. “I can’t— Fuck. I can’t fucking tell if you’re the most romantic person in the world or just the most childish.”

“Hollywood votes both, I’ll race you for real this ti _mmph!_ ” Karkat gives him a hard shove, knowing he will land in soft snow, and takes off running toward the swingset. His legs are short but he is fast and determined, and he has plenty of time to select the most appealing swing and flip the seat to get rid of the snow before Dave even reaches the dug-out hollow marking the structure’s perimeter. He regrets sitting down as quickly as he does—the rubber seat is still about as cold as Margaret Thatcher’s shriveled tit—but he didn’t want Dave to have any room to steal his victory from him.

“Were you that eager to win because you were hoping I’d peddle my own ass as a victory trophy as easily as you did earlier?” Dave wonders, selecting his own swing. It’s lower to the ground than Karkat’s is— his feet are going to drag. Karkat doesn’t care. If he wanted the precious high swing he shouldn’t have lost the race.

“I don’t need to win a race to get you to peddle your ass to me,” Karkat says, dismissive and matter of fact. Dave hops in his swing sideways and crashes into Karkat as he’s trying to build up forward momentum. “Hey!”

“Hey,” Dave replies, waggling his eyebrows. It’s ridiculous. Karkat forces down a laugh.

“Is this a sex metaphor? Because it’s not subtle,” Karkat says.

“The kind of literature I read doesn’t need metaphors for sex, baby,” Dave replies, pushing back with his long legs and then sailing forward easily, shifting his weight when he reaches the arc's zenith. “We just say cock and fuck and pussy as much as we want.”

“That’s not called literature, that’s porn.”

“Same diff.”

“Nowhere near the same diff.”

“Look, if you can call your stupid romance movies art, I can call my smutty webcomics literature.”

“Whatever, Dave.”

“You cannot deny the lasting appeal of alien-robot-tentacle-fucking, dude. They’ll be teaching that shit in goddamn elementary schools in the next fifty years, mark my words.”

“The internet has ruined you.”

“No, the extremely lucrative not-safe-for-work commission culture has ruined me. I basically have no shame anymore.”

“I hope the entirety of your career is reduced to the fact that you spent three years drawing low quality, overpriced furry porn.”

“Low quality and Overpriced are my middle names.”

“Whatever happened to my standards,” Karkat bemoans, finally swinging next to him. They go in tandem for a while, but Dave’s longer legs win again and he propels himself even higher, until his weight is making the chain go slack when it reaches the highest point of every swing. The entire structure _thumps_ every time Dave lands back in the seat, slave to gravity. It always made Karkat vaguely nervous when that happened, but Dave legitimately looks like he’s about to lift off, just hover right out of the seat and fly away.

He doesn’t realize he’s slowed down significantly until Dave does the same, peering through the darkness at him with curious eyes. It’s starting to snow again. There are flakes caught in his white lashes. Karkat wants to kiss them away, but doesn’t lean forward to do so.

“Can we make a stupid promise?” Dave asks, voice cutting into the silence, a pure note against the discordant harmony of creaking chain links.

“Depends on how stupid,” Karkat says. “For example, I’m not lying to the cops when you shove cocaine up your ass and try to smuggle it across the Canadian border.”

“Look,” Dave says. “That was _one time_.”

Karkat leans against the swing chain, hisses through his nostrils at the cold against his cheek. “So, what then?”

Dave goes a bit quiet, drops his gaze, fidgets in the seat. “It’d be dumb, like,” he begins, halting. Then he presses his lips together, makes a sound of frustration. Tries again. “I’m glad things turned out the way they did, ‘cuz I genuinely believe we’re big enough assholes that we might not have ever become friends if it hadn’t been preceded by three weeks of compulsory harassment along a barely related agenda.” He swallows, then continues. “I even think it’ll be a pretty hilarious story down the line, now that it’s out in the open that we were literally fucking with each other the entire time, and if we’d’ve been less dickish to one another we probably never would have given interacting more than a passing thought, an’ that… kills me, so.” Clears his throat. “So, ‘m not upset, an’ I don’t regret it.”

“But?” Karkat wonders, sensing the unspoken conclusion.

“But,” Dave agrees. “I don’t…” He’s visibly struggling. Karkat stretches to put his feet on the ground—goddamn it, high swing, betrayed by his own hubris—and walks himself to the end of his underswing divot, reaching forward to grasp at Dave’s hand. White fingers clench hard around his. The touch stings, but neither of them let go. “I don’t want shit to continue like this, I guess,” he finally spits out.

“Lying to each other?”

“Yeah.”

Something warm and permanent collects in Karkat’s gut. The fear inside him wants desperately to ignore it, but it slowly builds into a crackling fire, musical and persistent. “You think it’s stupid to ask that we don’t lie to each other for shits and giggles anymore?” Karkat asks, his voice kind and uncomfortably soft, just a tender rasp of callous-on-silk.

Dave shrugs one shoulder, not looking at him. “It seems presumptuous, I guess.”

“Dave,” Karkat says, still so quiet and gentle it aches in his bones to be producing such a sound toward another person, “I’m not going to lie to you anymore. For as long as we’re together.”

Together. Not just ‘friends.’

The implications of his wording hit him like a blow to the solar plexus and he holds his breath like it was real-real, not just something he imagined upon insinuating that he and Dave had something akin to a _relationship_ between them.

It is terrifying to acknowledge and at the same time ridiculous _not_ to. Oh, his head is spinning. He might faint.

Then Dave’s lips peel back into the most heart-wrenching smile, eyes crinkling and cheeks going a darker red than they were from just the biting cold. He presses his lips back together, trying to hide it, teeth sinking into the bottom one but it is no use, they spread again and he looks beautiful in the indirect light, a grinning constellation, some kind of etheric sliver hidden in the stars. Karkat looks for the map to Neverland splayed across his cheeks and hopes fiercely that they will be transported to somewhere where they never have to see the end of this moment, never have to give up this blistering second of visceral _connection_.

Karkat could lose his mind in a smile like that, provided he hasn’t already.

He hauls on Dave’s hand, tensing his muscles and pulling their swings closer— gets his foot hooked around Dave’s ankle to steady them, leans in to claim that sweet mouth in a promising kiss.

Their foreheads clunk together, and Karkat lets go, hissing in pain. Dave is doing the same but also laughing, exasperated and delighted in equal parts. “Fuck off,” Karkat mutters.

“This I solemnly swear, and seal with a kiss—” Dave teases. Karkat abandons his high perch, stumbling on half-numb legs, and moves as if to tackle him off his swing. Dave extricates his own self, staggers backward several paces, and then scoops Karkat up before he can Juggernaut his way through Dave’s sternum. They go crashing backward against an incline, Dave breaking the fall by landing in a snowy heap. Karkat swallows Dave's laugh, then swallows the shriek of _cold!_ that follows it.

He kisses Dave hard and thorough and almost gets carried away until Dave flips them over, landing Karkat’s back in the snowdrift and using his distraction to worm ice-cold hands up his hoodie _and_ both his shirts, pressing inexcusably frigid fingers to his vulnerable ribcage. Karkat shrieks, and mashes snow in his face, and kisses him again and again as Dave slowly pulls their bodies back into a standing position. He kisses him until Dave moans, kisses him until there is winter-defying heat in his lower body, kisses him until the snow caught in his hair starts to melt and drips down the back of his neck.

“Let’s go home,” Karkat suggests, shivering in horror at the impending promise of ‘wet _and_ freezing’ he’s currently being faced with.

“Motion seconded,” Dave agrees, breathless and red, fresh snowflakes taking up residence in his hat. Karkat ends up putting his hands in the gloves Dave offered before—rather, glove, singular, since he only seems to have retained one of them—and shoves his hands in his pockets to keep Dave from reaching for them anyway. He watches with approval as Dave’s fingers disappear into the folds of his clothing as they make their way back toward the apartment complex.

It’s a quieter trip than the first half. They don’t speak much, other than soft whispers here and there, mostly bitching about the amount of snow they’ve absorbed, now melting against their body heat.

He hears the preparatory inhale and waits for Dave to speak, but he’s still surprised when he hears what comes out.

“Do you ever stop missing your parent?”

Karkat stops in his tracks, heart suddenly heavy in his chest. Dave pauses, waiting for him, expression solemn. “Why?” Karkat creaks out, not understanding the thought process.

Dave shrugs, moving a bit away from him. He looks up at the moon and his face is… not sad. Wistful, maybe. “Bro an’ I once did this. Before he decided he hated me after all, I guess. I barely remember the details, jus’ that it happened. We walked all over Houston at midnight. He was showing me all these shortcuts he took around the city, in case I ever got lost or somethin’. Showed me hide-outs in case someone was chasing me. Landmarks.” He shrugs. “I dunno. There was a play place then, too. He dared me to get into one of the baby swings, and I almost got stuck. I actually heard him laugh.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I know it sounds stupid. He was a—”

“It doesn’t sound stupid,” Karkat cuts in sharply. “I’ve never had an abusive parental figure,” he says, and then pauses, not sure if Dave is ready to hear that word yet. He’s never used it himself when describing the situation, but aside from a small twitch of alarm, he doesn’t react. “I can’t imagine how you feel, but I do know that it’s been eleven years since my dad died. I still cry every anniversary.” He pauses, swallows thickly. “It never goes away. There isn’t a single fucking day I don’t…” He clenches his fist, trails off.

Dave nods, satisfied. “He beat the shit out of me,” he says, and Karkat had inferred it but it still hurts to hear. “Did all sorts of weird shit to make me scared all the time, always keep me on my toes. Real paranoid guy. I don’t think he even liked me, and he sure as fuck never said he loved me. When I was a kid, I think I was like, funny, or pathetic enough that he found me amusing, but when I got older it was just plain as fuck resentment.”

The rant peters out, and Dave is left looking weak and lost, a babe in the unforgiving cold. Karkat touches his arm, squeezes. “I just want to know if I’m a fucked up freak for still missing him sometimes.”

“You aren’t,” Karkat soothes, hushing him with a gloved hand on his cheek. “You’re sure as hell not the fucked up one. Think about it like—” He hesitates. “Like you’re not missing what was, but what could have been.”

Dave sniffles, wiping his bare, knobby wrist against his nose, which has started to drip. “That’s a good way of putting it, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Karkat repeats softly. “But really, let’s get home. Any more heart-to-hearts can wait until later, I promise. I will stay up all fucking night listening to every wretched confession you can conceive of if you just let me get warm first. Deal?”

Snorting messily, Dave nods, then hazards a trembling smile. “Sounds good.”

They don’t hold hands, but Karkat does shove himself under Dave’s arm, leaning against him as they walk. It is quiet and peaceful and good in a way he’s not sure he even deserves, but he’s happy about it anyway.

The apartment building at last looms in the distance. He is almost regretful that the night is going to be over, despite his desperate mental attempts to delay that, but the promise of warmth and hot cider compels him. Also maybe taking Dave’s clothes off and cuddling beneath a comforter on the couch. Mm. Or showering together. That would— (Haha. If only. Dave has yet to get on the ‘fully naked’ train and, similarly, has never tried to involve his painfully obvious arousal in any of their make-outs. It’d be insulting if Karkat didn’t just think he was scared of getting too intimate too quickly.)

… anyway.

It’s late enough that he’s resigned to letting the evening’s magic fade. The hazy glow of yellow street lamps is replaced with acrid white of the apartment doorstep, stuffed with bug corpses that cast minuscule shadows from inside the fixture.

He reaches for the door, but Dave tightens his arm around him, stopping him. Karkat looks up, halfway to irritated. He literally just promised that Dave could talk as much as he wanted _once they got inside_ , the cold and wet is starting to get legitimately uncomfortable and he is ready for it to be over, no more blurry-eyed nostalgia for him. “What?” he asks, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

Dave’s sunglasses have shifted back down onto the bridge of his nose, and it makes it hard to gauge exactly how vulnerable his expression is, but Karkat can guess. “Don’t you want to go upstairs?” he asks transparently.

“Yes,” Dave says, and then doesn’t say anything more. He just looks at him.

Karkat sighs, and reaches for the glasses, plucking them off Dave’s face. Dave blinks, a tiny wince when the light touches him. “Tell me,” Karkat instructs, bouncing a little to ward off the cold.

“I want you to stay with me,” Dave blurts out, curling his fingers into the front of Karkat’s jacket, stroking it fitfully. “Here. Permanently,” he continues. His pupils are small, eyebrows furrowed. “I— I don’t want you to move out,” he says, petering out into awkwardness. His gaze falls away, and he scuffs his toe against a bare spot in the concrete, knocking thick chunks of salt aside. “Is that okay?”

Silence. Several seconds of it. Internal contemplation that goes beyond just having space of his own, having a cat, having a roommate who doesn’t hate him. Karkat thinks of intimacy and movies and apple cider and sex and Dumpling scratching at the door while they try to sleep, Dumpling scratching at the door while they’re entwined in Dave’s bed. Stability and convenience and trust.

For once.

He lets out a hollow, tremulous laugh. “Is that okay?” he parrots. “You fucking idiot.”

Dave’s chin snaps up, eyes suddenly wide. Karkat reaches forward and yanks on his collar. “You just offered me the best thing anyone has ever tried to give me since my fucking dad died, and you want to know if that’s okay.” Dave laughs, high and hysterical. They’re clutching each other like they’re about to fight. “I’ll stay. Fuck. Of course I’ll stay.”

No longer fisted in his jacket, Dave’s hands wrap around, knocking his hood back so they can wind into his hair, holding but not pulling. “Seriously?” he asks, like he can barely believe it.

“Yeah,” Karkat says past the knot in his throat. He swallows, tries to calm down. Clears his throat, making sure his voice won’t come out so squeaky at the next part. “On one condition.”

Dave looks alarmed, but nods. “What?” He seems ready to hear the worst.

Like the flipping of a mystery card, Karkat smirks, suddenly savage. “We’re keeping Dumpling for sure, but you don’t get to change her name. _And_ I want you to clear out a bunch of your totally fucking unnecessary junk so I have room for a fishtank. I’ve always wanted one.”

“What the f—”

His indignant response is cut off when Karkat throws his arms around Dave’s neck and mauls him, mouth hot counterpoint to the rest of him, which is quickly becoming a very gay popsicle. It’s okay though, because Dave muffles a sound like a sob into his mouth and clutches him tight and kisses back like he’s desperate for air and might find relief in Karkat’s own lungs. They share a breath, wordless and intense and dizzying, and don’t let go even when there’s a sharp click on the pavement behind them.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” a crisp voice intones. “It’s not my intention to interrupt, but you are blocking the entrance to the building.”

They fly apart like the other’s body just turned into a corrosive acidic sludge monster. “Ms. Watson!” Dave squeaks in the highest register Karkat has ever heard from him. “What are you doing out so—”

“Now, now,” Ms. Watson says, her lined face not cracking into anything reminiscent of a smile, but Karkat swears there’s a gleam in her dark eyes. “An old woman is entitled to her privacy. Please step aside so that I can bid you both a good night.”

Karkat doesn’t think about it, just mashes himself against Dave’s chest, both of them shifting as one humiliated being out of her way, and they watch as she taps regally up the short stairs, swipes her keycard, and steps inside. The door closes behind her.

“Damn,” Dave says quietly. “I _knew_ she was gay.”

Karkat bursts into ragged laughter. “We’ll invite her to the housewarming party. Speaking of: I’m so fucking cold, Dave.”

Dave takes his hands and chafes them, kissing the fingertips on his ungloved hand where his black nailpolish is chipped almost out of existence. “Me too,” he agrees, “but there’s no fucking way I’m going inside while she’s on the staircase. I will die from embarrassment, jus’ watch me.”

“I’m going to die of cold if you don’t,” Karkat says frankly, scowling at him (even if inside he is nowhere near angry). “Then you will have a dead roommate and you’ll have to apologize to my boss and take care of Dumpling all by your incompetent self.”

“Well, shit,” Dave says, shuffling closer. “Can’t let that happen.” His forehead comes to rest on Karkat’s and they stare at each other like that until Karkat groans, long and loud, and buries his face in Dave’s chest.

“I cannot fucking survive like this, I was not made for this kind of abuse—” he grouses, scrambling like he is trying to actually bury himself in the folds of Dave’s coat.

Chuckling, Dave squeezes him. “Ms. Watson should be in her apartment by now; we can move, provided our legs haven’t frozen in place, like that’d suck, right? So close to freedom and yet so far, this is our literal fucking Sisyphus’ trial, or Loki, maybe. I don’t fucking know, what’s a good metaphor for someone who’s eternally destined to be just out of reach of their— oh. Heh.”

Karkat lifts his head a bit, looking at the side of Dave’s chin, because he’s staring at something above them. “What?”

Shifting around him, Dave points. “Dumpling’s sayin’ hi.” He turns, and sure enough, there’s a white fluffy blob pawing at the glass of their window, tucked under the curtain. His lips twitch and he gets a weird feeling in his chest, though he’s distracted by Dave nuzzling at the back of his neck. “How does it feel to finally have one of your own?” he asks, verbalizing Karkat’s thoughts.

Fuck. Dave’s right. In the midst of everything he hadn’t really stopped to think about— Dumpling was _his_. It was teasing at the time, but he doesn’t think Dave is joking about seriously passing Karkat the mantle of ownership.

He actually gets a little choked up, but before they can have any more way-too-late-way-too-cold revelations, he says, viciously triumphant, “I am going to go inside and I am going to cuddle the fuck out of that cat and you are not going to distract me.”

“By all means,” says Dave, kissing behind his ear and then giving him a nudge to get his admittedly stiff legs moving.

“You better not have any other plans, either,” Karkat mumbles gruffly as he reaches his hand out for the door handle while Dave swipes his keycard.

“Oh, I’m invited to the cuddlefest now?”

“Duh.”

“Well, I guess being a second thought is better than bein’ not thought of at all— hey!”

Karkat hauls hard on Dave’s wrist, pulling him through the entrance, toward this giddily exciting new chapter of his life. He looks over his shoulder with a crooked half grin and gives him another tug up the stairs to _their_ apartment. “Shut up and get in here, dumbass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥♥♥


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: cries and plays "At The Beginning" from Anastasia 5,000 times
> 
> this is the official LAST CHAPTER that will be posted here! PLEASE if you want to get alerts for the sidefics & eventual sequel, subscribe to the series! no more alerts will go out for this particular fic.
> 
> as always, thank you ALL for being here with me. i hope this is the ending you guys deserve.

When you wake up you're immediately aware of the unfamiliar surroundings, but you feel nothing in the way of panic or concern. There is a solid, warm body underneath yours. Neither of you are wearing very many clothes. You aren't in a hurry to open your eyes, but when you eventually do you see the dark blue of the futon cover, followed by the living room rug.

Your living room rug, if last night's memory serves.

Bleary snap-shots from four AM tell you that you and Dave fell asleep on the couch, huddled together trying to coax the cold from your bones. He smells sweet beneath you. (By 'sweet' you mean 'like sweat' but you enjoy Dave's natural scent, so you're not complaining.) It's not often that you stay up that late—ten o'clock used to be your nightly bedtime—so right now it is unusually hard to convince yourself upright so you can start getting ready for work. The warm pressure on your back isn't helping.

At first you think one of the couch pillows just landed on you somehow, but the mass is heavier than a pillow, and when you shift on Dave's chest, so does whatever's on your back. For a few seconds you are actually concerned and then you hear a soft, grumpy miaow.

Fortunately, Dave is not awake to witness the embarrassing spectacle of your heart melting into gooey sludge as Dumpling eases herself onto a couch cushion and then jumps to the floor, immediately whipping around in hopes of being lavished with affection. You are particularly eager in this endeavor, nearly purring yourself as you stroke her pale, silky fur, still nestled against Dave's chest.

Dumpling tolerates it until you return to the space of sleepy-comfort, your eyes drifting closed once more. She produces a displeased caterwaul and bats her paw at your limp fingers. When you reach for her again, she evades your reach and bolts toward the kitchen, stopping after a few paces to turn and yowl at you. She sounds hungry. You don’t begrudge her that, and proceed to grope around for your cell phone. The phone you end up procuring is significantly more iPhone-shaped than your own, but it still tells time adequately enough.

Ah. You’re not late yet, fortunately, but you would have been if your internal clock hadn’t sensed something amiss with your sleeping in. At least your commute is only a short bus ride now.

Groaning softly, you stretch out your stiff limbs, then press a soft kiss to the joint of Dave’s neck where he is warm and compelling; he mumbles sleepily. You suppose even he can’t sleep through you squirming all over on top of him, for all that he doesn’t budge during your morning puttering. You trace your nose up to his jaw, humming affectionately. "I'd tell you to stay asleep," you murmur, "But I doubt you'd actually get up before noon anyway." He fails to produce anything in the way of words, but his arms come up around you, fingertips grazing the bare skin of your back as he embraces you tightly. You absorb it like one might a very rich dessert, as if Dave doesn't offer his physical comfort with addictive regularity nowadays.

Dumpling wails.

Right. You're going to be late.

With one more kiss, tender against his temple, you extricate yourself from Dave's grip.

You miss his warmth immediately but you don't let yourself give into the urge to crawl back under the thick comforter--you tuck it around him gently and then shuffle around trying to find your phone. It's on the coffee table, hidden behind two empty mugs. You grab it along with the mugs and shuffle into the kitchen amidst Dumpling's joyous mewls.

Mugs go in the sink, phone on the counter, and then you dig out Dumpling's food from a cabinet and portion it into her bowl. You should be getting dressed about now, but you let yourself sink to the floor, sitting there in your underwear (cold) stroking a hand down Dumpling's back as she eats. She purrs unevenly as she chews, and you laugh a bit at the sound.

When she finishes she abandons you to clean herself, and you force yourself up because neither you nor your boss will be happy if you miss the bus and have to run.

...which is to say, Mr. Kulkarni won't care because you usually arrive early anyway and there's no way you won't have the store open on time, even if you don't meet all your personal standards. In reality, Tank Time's owner is nowhere near as picky as you are when it comes to daily maintenance. Half of what you do is of your own machination.

You shrug it off as you slink into the bedroom, eyeballing the cold, undisturbed bed—a glaring reminder of your present situation, from trusting Dave enough to sleep next to him, to your occupation of his single bedroom. Will Dave's nights be spent on the couch indefinitely? You are not prepared to confront any of this, so you point yourself at the drawer of Dave's dresser you've commandeered for your work clothes and quickly get dressed. You don't linger on your way out of the apartment.

The bus is already approaching when you make it to the stop and you narrowly avoid missing it. It's good you didn't dawdle. It's not good that you realize you didn't eat anything. You think you might still have something in the freezer.

Tonight you have to spend dinner with Dave's sister and your prying best friend, who is going to wring details out of you whether you want her to or not, but for now you focus singlemindedly on altering your morning ritual to fit the some fifty-five minutes you'll have to open, instead of your usual hour and a half. You'll be fine.

You're surprised to find Mr. Kulkarni already at the store when you arrive. It feels weird not to unlock the door and disable the alarm upon walking in for once—it's a rare thing for him to be in before ten, and usually it's much later. You try not to be immediately suspicious and fail, for the most part. Creeping up to his office, you hail him quietly. "Mr. Kulkarni? You're in early."

"I had something to take care of," your boss says dismissively. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

You don't panic, you just— "I'm a little late today, actually," you hedge. "I need to start opening."

Mr. Kulkarni sends a withering look at the clock, but eventually nods. "Ten fifteen sound good?"

"I'll have the store open by ten," you say firmly, incredibly put off by the whole situation. "You can come talk to me whenever you're free." He might roll his eyes, but you're already hoofing it out of his office, beelining straight for the adoption center. The rescue is scheduled to bring a new cat today. You determinedly focus on being excited about that as you begin cleaning kennels.

The fishtanks are still crystalline but you are nonetheless agitated when ten o'clock rolls around before you have the opportunity to vacuum the gravel. It's not that you won't have time throughout the week, but you just—

"Karkat."

"Yes?"

Mr. Kulkarni gives you a thoughtful look. "Do you have an issue with the tank wall?"

You start, realizing you've been glowering at it. "No, I was just thinking. What's up?"

"I wanted to consult you about the way the store is currently being run." Ice solidifies in your chest. You knew he'd be angry about that time he caught you with Dave those few weeks ago, even if the issue was weirdly neutralized at the time. He just still saw Dave as a customer and didn't want to give a bad impression, but now that you're alone— "Karkat."

You blink at him, owl-eyed. "Yes?"

Mr. Kulkarni sighs, waves a hand at you as he walks over to the cashwrap, pushing open the swinging door and walking to sit in the chair by the register. Meekly you follow him, trying to keep your breath slow and even as you ease yourself into the victim's chair. That's definitely not what you call it when you're doing interviews. You definitely don't feel the tables turning on you right now. Your boss inspects you, rubbing his chin as he does, and you're starting to wish he'd just drop the bomb already, when he opens up and says, "You know, I've never been able to figure out what I did to inspire such deference in you, but it'd be kind of funny if I didn't actually feel bad about it."

Unsure, you hedge, "Excuse me?"

He shakes his head. "Karkat, you've been pretending to be some kind of model employee since I hired you, and as far as I can tell, you dropped the act for everyone else four months into the job. I don't know if you think I'm that obtuse or just an asshole, but I would have fired you long ago if it was actually a problem."

You are shell-shocked, fingers clenched tight on your knees. "I don't... understand."

Waving his hand at the store, Mr. Kulkarni says, "I would say I don't get how a person can be so functionally efficient and terrified of their supervisor at the same time, except in your case I kind of do. But that's what I'm trying to talk to you about. I just want to put it on the table that you don't have to pretend to be something you're not in front of me. I know very well you take the sign off the hermit crab tank every day when I come in."

Tensing, you grit your teeth. "They're a very sophisticated species with high care requirements and it's disgusting that people treat them as throwaway practice pets—"

He holds up a palm, halting you. "I've heard the speech, Karkat. As much as it cuts into pet sales, your dedication to only giving animals to ethical homes is pretty impressive. I can't say it was my priority going in, but..."

"What changed your mind?" you ask, unable to hide your curiosity.

Shrugging, he says, "My custom work connects me with people who are very passionate about what they do. Spend an hour talking to a guy who's paying fifteen thousand dollars to turn his mudroom into a walk-in paludarium and you'll learn more than you thought there was to know."

"Huh."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Mr. Kulkarni goes on to say, which throws you off again. "You've never taken a day off in two years. You work constantly, without complaining, and come in early to do extra tasks and still worry if I'll begrudge you the extra time."

You fidget. "It's not like I have anything better to do..."

"Maybe not before," he says, cryptically, but before you can question it he's already surging ahead. "It occurs to me that instead of you being constantly afraid of termination, I should be afraid of you realizing you can do better."

"... Mr. Kulkarni?"

"Yes?"

"Why does this sound more like a break-up negotiation than a conversation about the store?"

He laughs, so you don't regret the outburst as much as you were preparing to. "Okay, fair," he says. "I'll get to the point: I think I owe you more than what I'm currently doing, and I'm going to make good on that. I want to hire more people to help you—"

Panic seizes you again; you almost stand up out of your chair. As much as he seems genuine-intentioned, you don't exactly do well with people _and_ you can't afford a pay cut right now. "That won't be necessary, sir, I promise I can handle the store on my own—"

He's laughing again. "Karkat, will you let me finish?"

You force yourself to look settled. "Sorry."

"Here's the thing about hiring new people: I'm not around the store all that much. I'll need a supervisor." The gears slowly click into place inside your head. You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. "Forty hours a week with benefits, all I'm asking is for you to be available by phone during business hours. You can choose two or three part timers depending on how you'd like to make the schedule." He leans back in the chair, inspecting you. "You can write your schedule however you want, just don't exceed forty hours unless it's an emergency. I assumed you'd want to take weekends off so you can spend more time with your boyfriend."

"Dave's a freelancer," you say distractedly, before you realize the full implication of what was just said. You sputter. "I mean— we're not, I— Dave isn't my—"

Mr. Kulkarni levels you an amused expression. "Excuse me for assuming," he says generously, and then before you can stutter yourself into a further stupor: "So, are you interested?"

It's ridiculous that you have to take a second to consider it. You feel like a genuine idiot for pausing, gnawing your lip in apprehension. It's not about the offer. You'd be batshit not to accept. You just need a moment to process adding this on top of all the other changes in your life. "I," you attempt, finally. "Yes. Of course." Your voice is uncharacteristically quiet but you don't feel like explaining why.

Slapping a hand on his thigh, he stands up. "Fantastic. I'll have some paperwork for you to fill out later, and in the meanwhile I'll print some new hiring signs." He looks around at the store. "With more workers we'll have time to straighten up around here." You follow his glance. As immaculate as the animal cages are, you do have to admit the rest of the store looks pretty grungy. In your defense, maid is not part of your job description.

...and now it doesn't have to be. You get moderately excited at the idea of having cleaning bitches, but you swallow that down. "I appreciate this opportunity," you begin, but he cuts you off.

"Don't. You more than earned it. I'm just a little late returning the favour." He steps out from behind cashwrap, inspecting the outside of the counter as he walks along it. "I'd like to see more positive changes in the store once this is implemented. You should have more than enough manpower to make that happen."

"Of course, sir," you say.

Mr. Kulkarni makes a face, and for a moment you think you said something wrong. "I'm serious about getting rid of the ferrets, though. Has no one really expressed interest, or did you just chase them all off?"

You shrug weakly. "Eighty-twenty, maybe?"

He snorts. "If you're so picky about it, why don't you take them?"

"My house doesn't allow—" You stop. You were so used to this being the case that you forgot that you don't live there anymore. No, you have a home where you're welcome now, and a pet cat, and, and a full time job where you get to be a manager, and your apartment is only ten minutes down a bus line... fucking hell, this is too much. You wait for the catch, but nothing seems to be flying through the door to punch you in the face and post your humiliation to YouTube, so you just offer your boss a wan smile and nod at him. "I'll see what I can do, sir."

"Good," he says, and then he's walking back to his office, all casual like he didn't just make a proposition that will completely change your current path of existence.

You spend another hour or two in a daze, tasking here and there in between the early customers. It keeps you busy, but not busy enough to repress the wonder filling up in your chest. You don't know what's going to happen when you get too full. Surely your good news threshold has a limit somewhere, and when it reaches that limit you're going to fucking pop.

Around noon your phone rings, but it's fairly upbeat today so you don't get to check it until almost an hour later. When you get around to wrangling it out of your pocket, you're greeted by two texts, one of which is a loading photo from Dave. You glance up as a customer enters the store, and when you look back down you see— oh.

Sleek creamy fur, mashed up against Dave's freckled forehead, his exposed eye giving the camera an amused look, tinted slightly blue from the lit television. Dumpling's head is barely in the frame, and the only visible part seems to be half-buried in Dave's messy white hair. He's still not wearing a shirt, if you judge by the shadowy angles of his collarbones low in the frame of the picture.

'im no professional or anything but i hope its a decent approximation of your cuddle skills' reads his accompanying text.

You think this is the part where you reach that threshold you were worrying about earlier, but rather than exploding you just feel warm and runny and incorporeal, like you wet yourself or something. You hope no one in the store can see you smiling.

The call button lights up under your thumb. You don't even need to think about what you're going to say when he picks up.

Your name is Karkat Vantas. You are twenty-four years old, and the middle of November is nowhere near your birthday. A month and a half ago, some idiot walked into your shop and you made it your mission to scare him off for good. For the first time in your life, you seem to have played a game you didn't actually mind losing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [y'all thought i was joking but i wasn't](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nV3WvlqRwdI)


End file.
